


Shallow Sansa

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Shallow Hal (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst Free Zone, Complete, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Happy Starks (ASoIaF), Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Ned and Catelyn are good parents, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Past Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: The GOT/Shallow Hal crossover that nobody asked for. (If you've never seen Shallow Hal - watch it - you won't be disappointed)Sansa Stark is shallow. She's had a string of relationships with good-looking men who always end up disappointing her. Perhaps her standards are too high, but she can't help but want to find that unicorn of a man she's conjured up in her mind. Through some higher power she is gifted/cursed with the ability to see on the outside what a person truly is on the inside, and finds herself crushing on a hunk of man that spurns her advances.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 183
Kudos: 266





	1. Hi, I’m Sansa, and I’m shallow

“I am _not_ trying eHarmony,” Sansa rolled her eyes for the hundredth time in twenty minutes.

“Come on… you’re the only single one in our group. Don’t you want to be able to do couples stuff with us?” Margaery pouted the pout that worked on every man in the city, and quite a few women, but not on Sansa.

Jeyne nodded, “Yeah, you always say _no_ when we invite you to come out with all of us!”

Sansa bit her tongue. She couldn’t tell them that she had no problem being the fifth wheel – her problem was being in the same room – nay _zip code_ – as Joffrey Baratheon – Margaery’s fiancé. Margaery knew Sansa had long-ago history with him, but just thought it was a typical breakup over incompatibility. In reality, it was a breakup because Joffrey was a complete asshole who openly teased Sansa in front of his friends, made crude comments about her body, and mocked her for being a virgin. That was in high school, when she was fifteen, but Sansa was a firm believer in Maya Angelou’s philosophy: When someone shows you who they are – _believe them_.

For Margaery’s sake Sansa was glad that Joffrey seemed to have settled down a bit now that they were all in their mid-twenties, but she’d never understand what Margaery saw in him. The dimples, golden hair, pouty lips, and slim figure that made him attractive in high school just didn’t cut it in Sansa’s adult view of what male hotness was. Broad shoulders, strong features, a nice thick beard – mmm, that was Sansa’s cup of tea. Oh, and tall. At 5’7” Sansa was tall for a woman, so she only dated guys who were _at least_ 6’1”.

Margaery moved on after Sansa didn’t respond, pulling back the sleeve of her blouse to show off a diamond tennis bracelet, “My anniversary gift,” she beamed proudly. Jeyne fawned over the bracelet.

_Oh right – that’s what she likes about Joffrey… he’s rich._

Of course, Marge’s family had their own money. And Joffrey really wasn’t rich, himself. His father and grandfather were rich. So rich that Joffrey and his siblings didn’t need to worry about money. Sansa shuddered at thinking of the men to whom Joff could attribute his wealth – Robert Baratheon was a pig and a womanizer. Tywin Lannister was so cold you got the chills just by standing next to him.

Jeyne seemingly wasn’t done trying to convince Sansa to let digital matchmakers find her a date in time for their friend Myrcella’s wedding in a month, “Come on, I know two different people who met their spouses on eHarmony – it really works!”

Margaery nodded, “What’s there to lose, San? You get to see their photos before accepting a match.”

Jeyne huffed, clearly annoyed that Margaery was trying to find Sansa a date while Jeyne was trying to find her a soulmate, “That’s not the point. It isn’t about looks.”

“It is for Sansa!” Margaery cackled.

“It is not!” Sansa insisted firmly.

“Need we present evidence to the contrary?” Margaery’s eyebrow curved up as it did whenever she knew she was right. It irked Sansa; she liked being the one who was right.

“Let’s see, in college you hooked up with _both_ of my brothers, Garlan and Loras, even though I told you Willas and you had a lot more in common.”

“Hey! Willas was older than me.”

“Like Jaime Lannister older?”

_Shit._

Marge smirked proudly, “ _Yeah_ , but we’ll get to him later. So Garlan and you had _nothing_ in common. And Loras was only using you to shut down the gay rumors before he came out…”

Jeyne pitched in, “Then after college it was Handsome Harry…”

“Ah yes, all brawn, no brains,” Margaery added, raising her brows, “And I mean _literally_ no brains. That he can walk and talk is actually is a medical marvel.”

Jeyne put on an exaggerated look of confusion, “Remind me, Marge, why did Sansa keep dating him after she realized he had two other girlfriends?”

Sansa buried her face in her hands, knowing what was coming.

Margaery tapped her lips, “Hmm, I don’t remember exactly, but I think it had something to do with his tongue.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush and prayed no one at the bar around them could hear this conversation, “In my defense…” She blew air out of her mouth loudly, “Oh fuck it, yes it was the thing he did with his tongue.”

“I don’t judge,” Margaery held her hands up in supplication.

Jeyne smirked around her glass of wine, “I think we forgot that slew of blonds during freshman year of college… each one hotter and dumber than the last.”

“Right, thanks Jeyne… and last but not least, our favorite, _Uncle Jaime!”_

Sansa huffed loudly, “Okay, you say that like he’s _my_ uncle… he’s Joffrey’s uncle… there was nothing wrong with me dating him!”

Jeyne shook her head, “Agree to disagree. He’s forty-six, you’re twenty-six.”

“Look, we had fun, okay?” Sansa tried feebly to defend herself.

“Yes,” Marge nodded, “you had fun with your very hot, older man of a _boss!”_ she smacked her hand down to emphasize the last word.

“You know, Marge. You can be a real bitch sometimes. And something about throwing stones in a glass house is coming to mind…”

Marge held up her hands again, “Hey, I know what I’ve got in Joffrey. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he can be a prick sometimes, but we have fun together and when he gets out of line, I put him back _in line.”_

“Ah, so you’re like his nanny… that’s so hot,” Sansa rolled her eyes.

Marge wasn’t even mildly insulted, “All men act like little boys from time to time.”

“Yes, and some more than others…” Sansa raised her brows, hoping her point was made.

“Oh and all the guys you’ve dated have been the pinnacle of maturity and class?”

“Never claimed they were,” Sansa crossed her arms.

“Right, and I don’t claim that Joffrey is anything he isn’t. You on the other hand, you think you’re going to find this Prince Charming… the complete package of looks, sense of humor, intelligence, kindness, generosity…”

“Thick beard, six foot eight…” Jeyne continued.

“Great in bed, nice apartment…” Marge added.

Jeyne nodded, “Nice family… good job…”

“Big dick…”

Sansa covered her face, “Can you two keep it down?”

“We’re in a loud bar on a Friday night, San. It’s after midnight, everyone around us is trashed, no one is listening to our conversation.”

“I was listening,” without greeting Arya slid into their booth.

“Damnit Arya, stop sneaking up on people!”

Arya ignored her big sister’s scolding. “So who’s the latest arm candy that disappointed Sansa by,” Arya gasped loudly, “not be a perfect human being!?”

“No one!” Sansa insisted, “I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t dated anyone seriously since Jaime and despite these two hens making it sound like I’m an old spinster, I’m perfectly happy to be unattached at this point in my life!”

“Nice speech, sis… did you rehearse it in front of the mirror this morning?”

“Whatever, anyway – you wanna be my plus one to Myrcella’s wedding?”

“Nah, you seem to keep forgetting I was invited, too. I’m bringing Gendry.”

“Oh right… I guess I’ll just go solo.”

Arya let out a long sigh, “Why don’t you go with Gendry’s friend Pod? I told you he thinks you’re really pretty. And he’s a really great guy.”

Sansa scrunched her nose, “Ehhh…”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Ehhh what? He’s got a good job, he’s nice, he’s cute. He’s a real gentleman, and – bonus – he can sing really well.”

“I know… I’m sure he’s nice, but…”

Marge rolled her eyes, “But he is a six, and Sansa’s minimum is an 8.3.”

“That is NOT true!”

“Then what’s wrong with Pod?” Marge shook her head in exasperation.

“Well, he is my height, for one thing.”

“Wear flats,” Jeyne shrugged.

“Ugh, and I just… there’s no spark there.”

“Because he’s a six,” Arya frowned.

“No! It’s because… alright fine, yes, I admit it, I don’t find him attractive. If it makes me a monster, just run me out of town with pitchforks, okay?!”

“Hey, at least you finally admitted it,” Arya sipped her beer indifferently.

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Hi, I’m Sansa, and I’m shallow.”

“Hi, Sansa!” her companions responded in unison.

“You’re a bunch of assholes.”

The three women smiled proudly and moved on to topics that were less humiliating to Sansa. After another half hour had passed Jeyne was the first to stand up to leave, “Alright, I’m heading out… I need to be at that workshop at nine.”

“Oh right, that witchcraft thing?” Arya grinned.

“Melisandre is not a witch,” Jeyne huffed, “she is a spiritual guide and healer. You still picking me up, San?”

“Yup, I’ll be there!” Sansa and Jeyne had made plans to go dress shopping for Myrcella’s wedding the next day. She’d pick up Jeyne from the college where the workshop was being held.

…

The next day, at twelve on the dot, Sansa waited outside the closed doors of the largest lecture hall in King’s Landing University, remembering that this was where she had some of her undergrad law classes. With a sigh, she remembered the young Sansa who thought she could get her law degree and become an advocate for the falsely accused, or perhaps a human rights attorney in Essos...

She snorted to herself, remembering how everything went awry during her first year of law school. She was lucky enough to get into a prestigious internship program. It was very rare that first-year students were accepted, and she felt completely confident that it was because of her undergrad record plus her strong grades in the first year of grad school. It was very clear though that everyone else assumed it was because a partner in the firm was a family friend of Sansa’s mother – Petyr Baelish. Sansa started the internship naively thinking she could prove her worth to all her fellow interns plus the attorneys and paralegals she worked with at the firm.

But two months into the internship Petyr made unwanted advances on Sansa when he kissed her in his office late one night. Sansa pushed him off once she realized what he was doing, but it was too late. Another intern had seen and anonymously reported it to the law firm’s HR and the University. To save his hide, Petyr threw Sansa under the bus, claiming she came on to him in hopes of endearing herself to him and securing a job after graduation. Sansa’s friends and family believed her, but Petyr did everything possible to drag her name through the mud so as to save himself from being booted from the firm. Sansa quit school and was so disenchanted with the study of law that she was ready to settle for being a fry cook when she ran into Jaime Lannister at Robert and Cersei Baratheon’s anniversary party. _A party celebrating the most unlikeable couple in the country_ , Sansa had joked to Margaery who was also in attendance. A deep, refined voice behind her had chuckled at that, _“I think you mean in the entire **world**.”_

When she turned around, cheeks red and eyes wide, Jaime Lannister was trying to contain a smirk. He let her sweat for a few moments before putting her out of her misery by changing the subject. He asked what she was doing since graduating – he knew she was a year older than his niece, Myrcella.

When she told him she had dropped out of law school and was looking for a job, he pursed his lips, _“Actually, I just started my own company. Private security. We’re hiring like mad, as we’ve already got some big contracts lined up. What I really need is someone who is good at writing and reviewing contracts to be a part of the tail end of the sales process. You think you could do that?”_

Sansa was shocked, the man whose sister she just insulted was offering her a job. He was also hot enough to be the guy diving into a pool in a cologne commercial, but that was beside the point.

_“Uh, yeah. I took contract law classes. And business law. It wasn’t what I envisioned myself going into… but I think I could definitely help.”_

_“Great!”_ Jaime beamed, revealing straight white teeth behind his perfect pink lips. Of course, Sansa had met Jaime before, once or twice, and knew he was a handsome man, but what was previously a girl’s appreciation was suddenly a woman’s lust. They had made plans for her to come by his office the following Tuesday, and she was given the job on the spot.

It had been fun – being part of what was essentially a startup meant everyone did a bit of everything. Sansa was involved in negotiating contract terms with clients, but she’d occasionally pinch hit on sales. She also helped out the legal team at times - reviewing vendor agreements, creating company policies, and other things her pre-law background helped with.

With Jaime’s connections, the business grew rapidly. They all worked long hours, including nights and weekends. Sansa had zero social life and Jaime was in the same boat. A year after she was hired, Jaime and she succumbed to the temptation that builds when two attractive people are alone in a conference room at nine o’clock at night. Unlike with Petyr, Sansa very much welcomed Jaime’s advances. They fucked like animals on Jaime’s desk, and it was forever seared into Sansa’s memory as the first time she climaxed from intercourse alone.

Perhaps they were just a sexual outlet for one another, for they continued this way for six months – fucking like bunnies at the end of a long night. Their sexual chemistry was smoking hot, and they both respected each other and worked well together. But when the company started making enough profit to hire more staff, they each suddenly found themselves with free time, and they decided to try dating. Perhaps it was too hard to have a “normal” relationship after six months of primal sex. Or perhaps they were never meant to be more than fuck buddies to begin with, because something was just _wrong_ when they held hands walking on the boardwalk, or when Jaime put his arm around her at a movie theatre, or when he introduced her as his “girlfriend”. They gave up after two months of trying and decided that they should go back to being friends and colleagues only – sleeping with each other when, clearly, they had no real connection seemed like a dangerous game.

As Sansa watched the wall clock tick – it was now 12:15 and Jeyne hadn’t come out of the lecture hall even as others did – she wondered why she had never found that connection with anyone. Her friends of course would say it was because she chose guys based on looks, but that couldn’t be it, could it? Was it not possible for a guy to be good looking and also have all those other qualities Sansa desired?

Sansa had been in enough relationships to know what she wanted. She liked guys who were well-read, who were passionate and knowledgeable about _something_ – it didn’t have to be law, like her. It could be astronomy or history or hells, even baseball, as long as it was _something_. She liked guys with a sense of humor, but not the showy types that were always trying too hard to make people laugh. Their coworker Bronn was like that, and Sansa found it fun for a few hours, but it quickly got old. She preferred subtle humor, wry humor. She also liked quiet guys. She herself was a talker, her friends were talkers, but she found overly talkative men to be a bit of a turnoff. In fact, it was one of the reasons she didn’t enjoy dating Jaime. He would literally strike up a conversation with a stranger on the subway, or a waitress at a restaurant – literally _anyone_ they encountered.

So intellectual, funny, but a bit reserved.

_Don’t forget built like a brick wall._

_No, shut up!_

Sansa sighed loudly, wishing Jeyne would hurry up and come out. Sansa was successful, hard-working, pretty, well-educated, and friendly. It wasn’t wrong for her to want a man to have just as many fine qualities as she herself possessed.

_Except it still won’t make you happy…_

_Shut up, bitch!!_

But the nagging voice was right. Jaime had been most of the things she wanted, she could have lived with his over-friendliness. Marge’s brother Garlan was also hot, well-built, friendly, and had a good job. Yet he wasn’t good enough for Sansa either. There was just something missing from all these guys… that indefinable thing. That connection, that… _love._

The realization hit Sansa like a truck: she had never been in love. Even stupid teenage love. She never felt that can’t-live-without-him kind of emotion. She was twenty-six, soon to be twenty-seven, and she’d never been in love.

_Maybe I **am** going to end up an old spinster._

Just as Sansa was about to spiral into a black hole of uncomfortable truths, the lecture hall doors swung open and Jeyne burst through, smiling from ear to ear, with an auburn-haired woman following her.

“San, this is Melisandre! Sorry to keep you waiting, but I waited for the chance to speak to Melisandre after the lecture, and… well, we just have _so_ much to talk about!”

Sansa smiled at her friend’s excitement, but something in Melisandre’s reddish-brown eyes was unnerving. She wasn’t looking at Jeyne at all but staring at Sansa. To break the awkwardness, Sansa extended her hand, “Hi, I’m—”

“Sansa,” the woman said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I guess Jeyne told you—”

“No…” Jeyne looked confused, then shook her head, “Or maybe I did.”

Melisandre made no effort to confirm Jeyne’s words; she continued staring at Sansa as they shook hands longer than was typical.

Jeyne seemed mildly put off but managed to rekindle her excitement, “Anyway, Melisandre and I are going to have lunch on Wednesday. She’s agreed to let me interview her for my thesis. Isn’t that great?”

Sansa nodded and forced a smile. Jeyne was working on her doctorate in religious studies. Melisandre was a famed Red Priestess who practiced an ancient religion involving the worship of fire and the belief in R’hollor – the Lord of Light.

“Well, nice to meet you, Melisandre,” Sansa spoke quietly.

Melisandre’s grip on Sansa’s hand became firm, and her eyes narrowed, “Sansawantsalover.”

“Uh, I’m sorry?” Sansa asked, trying to pull her hand away.

“Sansawantsalover,” the woman repeated.

“Uh, okay,” Sansa laughed, trying not to show how weird this whole encounter was to her.

Then, like nothing had happened, Melisandre dropped her hand and turned to smile warmly at Jeyne, “I’ll see you Wednesday at one!”

She turned and was gone, leaving Sansa to shake her head in confusion, “Wow, she’s… _intense_.”

“Yeah, I dunno what that was about.”

Sansa shook it off, “Come on, let’s go find us some dresses. At least one of us has to look hotter than Marge or else she’ll be _unbearable_ the entire time.”

Jeyne laughed and hooked her arm around her friend’s. Sansa tried to push the odd encounter out of her mind, but an odd sensation had settled into her stomach.

The girls made their way into a formalwear boutique. Sansa wished it was a winter wedding instead – she looked much better in black, gray, crimson, plum, and emerald than she ever did in the bright pastels and neons of summer attire.

When inquiring as to where she could find blush pink or peach – two summery colors that complimented her fair skin tone, the salesclerk acted as if Sansa was wasting her time – like she had better things to do than help a customer whose spending paid her salary.

After the saleswoman hastily pointed to a few dresses that might work, she went to the backroom with a huff.

Jeyne’s eyes widened, “Wow… she does realize she works here, right?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Probably just mad that she’s got the face of a bull terrier.”

Jeyne scowled, “I thought she was kind of pretty.”

Sansa could only shrug. Jeyne tended to be the nicest and most polite amongst Sansa’s friends.

“So….” Jeyne started, “Know who you’re going to take to the wedding?”

“I dunno. If Jaime doesn’t have a date, maybe we’ll just go together.”

“Going to a wedding with your ex. Sounds fun,” Jeyne’s eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline.

“You know he’s not like that. He’ll actually be a good wingman, and I’ll be a good wingwoman.”

Jeyne shook her head, “I still don’t get how you guys can be so cool together. Working together, remaining friends… I thought that only happened in movies where everyone is perfect, and no one is ever catty or immature or selfish.”

“Well, Jaime’s not like that and neither am I.”

“Ok, I get getting along as friends, but he’s so hot, if I saw another woman on his arm it would drive me nuts!”

“Well, I’m not the jealous type, I guess. It’s not like he’s _the one that got away_ …” Sansa cleared her throat, “Speaking of men, what was with Melisandre? It sounded like she said, ‘Sansa wants a lover’… is that what you heard?”

“Yeah, but she said it kind of fast… I’ve heard she’s eccentric. Maybe you were giving off some type of vibe… she’s supposed to be very emotionally in tune. Almost like a psychic.”

“Oh.”

“Why – what were you thinking about in that moment? Picturing some guy naked?” Jeyne teased.

“No, umm… it’s stupid,” Sansa focused on looking through the racks, grabbing anything that was remotely pink and a few pieces that were light blue.

“Hey, is everything ok?” Jeyne asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I just…” Sansa sighed. Jeyne was her childhood best friend. If there was anyone she could talk to about this, it was her. Marge and Arya would only tease her, and Myranda at work thought the concept of ‘love’ was invented by Hallmark to sell greeting cards and made-for-TV movies. Sansa chewed her lip, “While I was waiting for you, I was thinking about all my past relationships and realized… well, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. Is that weird?”

Jeyne scrunched her face, “Well, it’s not super weird, but I suppose most people our age have been bitten by the love bug once or twice… do you _want_ to be in love?”

“I dunno… yes? No? It seems like it would be nice to have that special person, but also like it would be inconvenient. Like, if I’m in love with a guy, and he’s in love with me, we’re going to want to spend all our time together and it will impact my work, or my friendships.”

Jeyne rolled her eyes, “You know women fall in love, get married, and even have kids every day and still have fulfilling careers and personal lives, right?”

“Eh, I guess.” Sansa wasn’t convinced. Sansa’s upbringing was very traditional. Dad brought home the bacon; mom cooked it. Her mom raised five kids, but she did not work. She was an intelligent woman but getting a job wasn’t something she needed or wanted to do, and she more than had her hands full at home.

Suddenly Jeyne’s lips curled into a smile.

“What?” Sansa groaned.

“Sounds like Sansa wants a lover.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Alright, I won’t tease, but seriously, why don’t you try eHarmony? What have you got to lose?”

“Look, Jeyne, no offense, but aren’t dating apps for people who…”

“…are looking for dates?” Jeyne guessed.

Sansa sighed, “Who aren’t outgoing and attractive enough to meet other people in normal ways, natural ways. Ya know, both getting into the same cab on a rainy day and sharing a laugh over it. Or finding out we jog at the same time every morning. Or ordering the same unusual drink at a coffee shop. Ya know…”

Jeyne quirked an eyebrow, “Ok, you drink coffee with cream and two sugars, and you don’t jog.”

“But I take cabs!”

“Whatever. If you want to meet Mr. Right in the back of a cab that smells like B-O and pine fresheners, I wish you all the luck in the world.”

They continued chatting as they each tried on countless dresses. Sansa finally found a pleated, asymmetrical dress in a blush pink and Jeyne found a floral print flounce dress that showed off her long, thin legs.

“Ok, I’ve worked up an appetite; late lunch?”

Jeyne nodded, and the women checked out and headed to a nearby café. It was a pleasant afternoon, not as muggy as it usually was during summertime in the city. Sipping their wine spritzers the friends chatted, Sansa sharing details of her work – they were about to onboard some newbies and Sansa was not looking forward to training them, and Jeyne talking about her thesis. Jeyne was getting her PhD in Religious Studies and Sansa was proud of her. She was also in a pretty serious relationship, though Sansa couldn’t say she approved of the boyfriend. He was nice enough, but it seemed he and Jeyne couldn’t converse on the same level. They were geeky but in different ways – Jeyne was a history buff, and Paul was a computer and video game nerd. Jeyne was analog, Paul was digital. When a group of them went out, Sansa and Jeyne usually split off and engaged in a discussion while Paul was somewhere with one of his friends.

Though Sansa abided Jeyne’s well-meaning relationship advice, it was hard not to tell her that she had no business lecturing Sansa. Only Sansa’s knowledge that Jeyne had self-esteem issues made her hold her tongue. By contrast, Sansa made it clear that she thought Marge could do better than Joffrey.

_Say what you will about Margaery, but the girl’s got thick skin._

When the waiter returned to take their food order, he looked like he was trying to be invisible. His eyes darted between Sansa and Jeyne and Sansa could tell he found them pretty. Though why he was acting so shy was a mystery; he was tan, dark-haired, with beautiful brown eyes and radiant skin. He was a bit slim for Sansa’s taste, but he was tall and very handsome in an exotic way.

Sansa smiled warmly at him, which only seemed to make him want to run away. After taking their orders he practically did just that.

Sansa leaned over the table, “Oh my God, does that guy look like a young Benjamin Bratt or what?”

The look on Jeyne’s face could have best been described as horrified.

“What? You don’t think so?”

“Umm… you’re talking about our waiter, right?”

“Yeah. Looks like a tall, cool glass of Kahlua and cream,” Sansa wiggled her eyebrows.

“Uh, if you like your Kahlua with a unibrow and an underbite, sure.”

“Geez, _now_ who’s shallow?”

Jeyne shook her head in a _‘whatever’_ expression and they went about the rest of their meal.

“Mmm…” Sansa checked her phone and spoke around a mouthful of Caesar salad, “Marge is going to the bar tonight with Loras and Renly… she asks if we want to meet up.”

“Eh, I kind of don’t feel like putting on makeup. You?”

“Eh, I kind of don’t feel like taking a shower.”

“Girls night?”

Sansa smiled, “Girls night.”


	2. The Flea Bottom Hugger

Sansa hit snooze three times on her alarm clock Monday morning. After blowing off Marge on Saturday night, Sansa and Jeyne got roped into going to dinner with Marge and her brother Loras on Sunday. Dinner turned into drinks and drinks turned into more drinks. Drinking after 10 PM on a worknight was a young woman’s game, and Sansa was closer to thirty than twenty.

After a hot shower and a coffee, Sansa was ready to start her day. She put extra care into her appearance knowing she’d be onboarding some new hires today and wanted to make a good first impression. She sometimes walked to work but since she had straightened her hair and it was humid out, she decided to take the train. It was packed as it always was on a Monday morning, so Sansa was thankful to find two seats open. Taking the closer one she sat down and immediately looked up to see the sexiest man she’d ever seen, who must have come onto the train right behind her. He looked like Joe Manganiello. He wore a tight tee shirt, basketball shorts and sneakers and judging by the sweat ring on his chest he had just been out jogging – probably in the city park. It was one of the few places to find trees in the city. He was catching his breath and the way his broad chest expanded with each inhalation made Sansa instinctively cross her legs as if he’d be able to smell her arousal. He looked around the train and when his eyes found on the empty seat next to her he looked like he was about to take it until his eyes landed on her.

_Fuck._

She’d been caught staring. Like full on, checking him out from head to toe. But oddly it was he who averted his eyes, turning his whole head away as if something was suddenly fascinating on the back of the train.

Perhaps he saw her all put together for work and didn’t want to sit his sweaty self next to her, but Sansa was wondering what that sweat tasted like and _God damn!_

She tapped the seat, hoping it looked flirty or friendly and not desperate, “I don’t bite,” she smiled even though he wasn’t looking at her, knowing he could see her out of the corner of his eye.

The man reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair of earbuds and put them in, all the while completely ignoring Sansa.

_Dick._

Really, if he was taken or simply not interested, he still didn’t have to pretend she didn’t exist. It stung a bit; Sansa wasn’t accustomed to men turning her down. Then again, she was rarely the one to make the first move. Sansa wasn’t ashamed to admit that she was pretty. Sure, not all men liked redheads, but she was tall, long-legged, with bright blue eyes and good skin, even if it was fair and had some freckles. And unlike lots of taller women she had curves. She was no Marilyn Monroe, but she felt like her rounded hips and small but perky boobs fit her frame well. But even she knew her hips and tits weren’t her greatest asset. That title belonged to her derriere.

_Hmm…._

When it was almost her stop, she stood up and waited by the doors, putting her backside in the man’s line of sight, assuming he wasn’t still pretending to look out the window. Her fitted pencil skirt showed off her butt, hips, and calves. _Have a good look, mister. Just try and ignore me now…_

…

At the office the new interns for Sansa’s department were due to arrive at 9:30 for the first day. She hadn’t met them before but the Head of Legal, Ron, had praised both of them as being top in their class and mature beyond their years.

They showed up at the same time – 9:25.

_Early on the first day – good._

Sansa was surprised by the pair that were brought to her office by the receptionist. Ron made them sound rather bookish, but Sansa thought they looked more like the Prom King and Queen. The young man, Sam, wasn’t overly tall but had a very handsome face and a good body, though it was hard to tell for certain in the cheap, poor-fitting suit that he wore.

The girl, Shireen, was quite beautiful. Rich, honey brown hair fell in silky layers to frame her face. She had perfect fair skin with nary a freckle, and gray blue eyes accented by tasteful makeup. Like the young man, though, she was in desperate need of a fashion makeover. She wore drab colors – a brown knee-length skirt that was a size too big, and a frumpy cream-colored blouse.

Sansa of course didn’t let her disapproval of their clothing show. Perhaps they were broke college kids whose only option was thrift store shopping. Still, it was odd to see such good-looking people in such hideous clothing.

Not that Sansa always dressed to the nines. In fact, when not at work she was more likely to wear jeans and a t-shirt than anything even remotely “fancy”. Then again, her ass was bangin’ in a pair of high waist slim fit jeans, so she never felt sloppy or frumpy.

Sansa showed them both around, explained some things to them, and had them fill out some forms for HR.

While they were completing the paperwork she went back to her desk and started getting some real work done. She desperately hoped at least one of the interns would work out, because she had a lot on her plate. To give herself more time she told Sam and Shireen to grab lunch after their paperwork was complete. Sansa would work through lunch, as she often did when Jaime didn’t drag her out, claiming human beings needed sunshine, just like plants.

After two hours of productive work she went in search of Sam and Shireen. A pair of young inside sales reps were giggling as they walked down the hall away from the kitchen. Sansa had seen the girls before but largely ignored them. People in their role didn’t last long. They were glorified telemarketers and few people could take the stress of a 98% rejection rate.

Also, for reasons Sansa didn’t understand, the department head seemed to exclusively hire empty-headed but pretty young women. Actually, Sansa did understand. The guy was a tool. Or perhaps a prick. Whatever term best fit him, it was clear he thought he was the gods’ gift to women.

She tried to avoid him like the plague, but he made that difficult. When Sansa was involved at the tale-end of a sale, Greg made a point to ask Sansa how things went instead of checking with one of the Account Managers who _actually_ reported to him.

He also made a point of letting his eyes roam everywhere but her face and did it so blatantly that it was clear he thought he was wooing her. Perhaps she was a hypocrite. This morning she hoped the big, sweaty wall of man would check out her backside, but whenever Greg was around, she crossed her arms over her chest in attempt to shield some of herself from his eyes.

As the salesgirls passed Sansa in the long hall, she thought she heard the words “Fat Bastard” and “Scarface”. Sansa shook her head, trying to think of a valid reason those characters would be mentioned in the same sentence… _“My favorite semi-biographical movie character is Scarface. My favorite ridiculously fictional character is Fat Bastard.”_

When Sansa walked into the kitchen a few seconds later Shireen and Sam were cleaning up their lunches. They both smiled when Sansa entered.

Sansa was relieved to find them both competent, hardworking, and polite. The three of them worked well together. Sansa delegated things to each of them and made herself available for advice or questions but told them not to be afraid to use their judgment. For at least the first week she’d review any contracts they’d written or edited and would let them know if anything they’d done was incorrect. Shireen seemed a bit more confident than Sam, but both took to the work comfortably when they realized Sansa wasn’t going to scold them for minor mistakes or snap at them for asking too many questions.

Sansa made a mental note to take both of them out for dinner on Friday. It was only Monday, but she could tell they’d do just fine.

…

The rest of the week was a repeat of Monday, but Sansa was getting seriously weird vibes everywhere she went. She saw the hot guy on the train again on Tuesday, again looking like he’d just been jogging. He didn’t even glance in her direction, but it was obvious he was doing so intentionally.

Oddly enough, there were two other times she had similar encounters. On Tuesday night she and Marge caught a late dinner at their favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. A group of three guys was there eating and chatting. All three of them were hot. Like, _hot_. Not guy on the train hot, and not Jaime hot, but firmly perched at the next tier down. 7.8 out of 10.

Sansa repeatedly saw one of the men glance at her but only when she wasn’t looking. Anytime she met his eyes he looked away and blushed.

The restaurant was too small to risk saying anything about it to Marge – they’d no doubt be overheard – but once they were walking home Sansa cleared her throat, “Did you notice the hot guys in the restaurant?”

Marge’s head snapped up; saying “hot guys” to Marge was like saying “cookie” to a dog.

“No! Why didn’t you point them out?”

“I figured you saw them – two tables over?”

She shook her head, “Next time point them out!”

“Well it would have been super obvious. No offense, but anytime I tell you to _not_ look at someone, you look at them. Anytime I tell you to be cool you be the opposite of cool.”

Marge waved an elegant hand, “You’re too worried about what people think. So what if a table of hotties hears us talking about them?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “I’m truly curious: have you ever felt the sensation of embarrassment?”

Marge shrugged, “I dunno, what’s it feel like?”

Sansa chuckled, “I have my answer.”

“So what about them?”

“Huh?”

Marge rolled her eyes, “What about the hot guys at the restaurant?”

“Oh… well one of them was staring at me but anytime I glanced back he turned away. He looked like I was going to bite. Like, super shy.” Sansa didn’t mention the guy on the train because she still wasn’t certain whether he was shy or a straight up asshole.

Marge nodded knowingly, “Ahh, ugly duckling syndrome.”

“What?”

“A late bloomer. Ugly straight through high school – ya know, acne, overweight, what have you… so by the time he became hot his self-image was warped.”

“Oh, that actually makes sense. I think Arya is that way, though her natural spunkiness hides it pretty well.”

“Yeah,” Marge nodded, “By the way – they can be real keepers as long as their self-image isn’t _so_ twisted that they’re incapable of having a good time. If you get the right one – just a little self-conscious, but not totally self-loathing – don’t let him go!”

Sansa snorted, “Seems kind of wrong to take advantage of someone’s self-consciousness.”

Marge nodded, “So is taking advantage of someone’s tongue, but whatever…”

“So is taking advantage of someone’s wealth.”

“Yeeuppp…”

Sansa looped her arm through Marge’s. Marge and she had a lot of dissimilarities, but Sansa had always admired Marge for not sugar-coating things and not pretending to be something she wasn’t.

“Love you, bitch,” she spoke while looking straight ahead.

She could hear Marge’s smile, “I know.”

…

It was Friday and Sansa had seen the hot guy on the train every morning. Today she wished she hadn’t. They had a mini crisis at the office on Thursday and Sansa ended up working really late. She didn’t fall asleep until 1:30 AM and her alarm went off at 6 AM. Dark circles on her pale complexion? Might as well be wearing zombie makeup. The only thing to be grateful for was that it was casual Friday.

The train was packed, and she was standing, leaning against a pole and resting her eyes. The motion of the train was hypnotizing, along with the familiar sounds of the morning commute on King’s Landing transit. Most people were silent, still waking up. A few chatted quietly. Other rustled newspapers. Occasionally a kid’s voice could be heard – they were noticeably louder than the adults.

Sansa felt the contentment that comes just before sleep. Later she’d vaguely remembered the stomach-lifting sensation that comes when one is falling, but all she was aware of at the time was an “oof” and strong arms wrapping around her from behind. Her eyes shot open, but she didn’t move. After a few seconds of silence a voice rasped close to her ear, “Girl, wake the fuck up.”

She turned her head and looked up at him – Mr. Hot-Guy-on-Train. Sexy lumberjack. Joe Manganiello doppelganger. Tall-dark-and-handsome-stranger. Mysterious stranger that is either shy or mean, gay or married.

She realized she’d been staring at his face and hoped hers didn’t betray the fact that her lower belly literally clenched at the idea of being held by such a man.

She shook her head, “Sorry, did I fall?”

He snorted but looked away from her, “Almost… I think you fell asleep.”

“Oh. You caught me?”

“No, I always put my arms around strangers on the train. You may have heard of me – the Flea Bottom Hugger.”

Sansa snorted a laugh, “Well, you’re certainly qualified.”

Realizing he was still holding her his eyes widened and his hands dropped away so abruptly she almost stumbled. She didn’t realize she’d been leaning into him.

“Well,” she cleared her throat, “You did your civic duty today. Rescuing a damsel in distress. Thanks.”

He was looking away again, or more accurately, looking over her head. “Don’t mention it,” he mumbled, before retrieving his phone from his pocket and scrolling through it. It was a clear sign he didn’t want to talk.

With a sigh she turned back around but noticed the man did nothing to put more space between them. She could feel the heat of his post-workout skin radiating against her back and had to put concerted effort into not leaning against him again.

_Gods – what’s wrong with you!?_

Sansa scolded herself. The guy obviously wasn’t interested. Maybe he was married or in a committed relationship. Maybe he was gay (though that would be a crime). Or maybe she wasn’t his type.

She didn’t know why she wanted this man – this _stranger_ – so badly. Obviously, he was hot, but so were lots of guys. Every day she saw some hot guy or another on the train, so why was this the first guy she was hoping would rip her clothes off and fuck her right here on the hard-plastic chairs of the D train for all to see?

Her stop was next, and she practically ran off the train.

At the office she arrived at the same time as Jaime and they rode the elevator together, “Hey… heard you were working until after midnight last night.”

She shook her head, “It’s alright. The Martells wanted the contract today after originally saying they didn’t need it until Monday. We got it done.”

“Good. Why didn’t you take off today?” he asked as they stepped out onto the floor that held both of their offices. While Sansa technically wasn’t an executive, she’d been one of Jaime’s original employees and so she enjoyed certain privileges. Jaime and the other senior managers respected her a lot and often asked her opinion on matters outside her purview. She couldn’t imagine a young woman working at a private security firm ever had such a position of respect, and she never took it for granted.

“I have interns, remember? Didn’t want to leave them hanging. I was going to take them out to eat tonight to celebrate their first week, but I think I’ll just let them leave early instead so I can pass out on the sofa in your office.”

Jaime smiled, “Sounds like a plan.”

Sansa followed Jaime into his office. They often spent time chatting in the morning. Their relationship had not been a secret, and everyone knew that they remained friends. Moreover, Jaime often talked to Sansa about things that were stressing him out. He once joked that she was more soothing than one of those stress-relieving squishy balls. Her response had been, _“And more fun to squeeze, too.”_

This morning Jaime didn’t seem particularly stressed so the two chatted casually while they drank their coffee.

“Do you have a date to Myrcella’s wedding?” Sansa came out and asked. She didn’t have to beat around the bush with Jaime.

“No, you?”

“Nope.”

Jaime smiled, “Pick you up at 2:00?”

Sansa nodded, “Unless I meet Mr. Right in the next three weeks.”

“Well if he’s really Mr. Right he will be understanding enough to let you go to the wedding with me anyway to save me from flying solo.”

Sansa smiled, “Good point. It’s a great way to make sure he’s not some possessive weirdo.”

“Win-win situation.”

Sansa chewed her lip, “Hey Jaime?”

“Hey Sansa.”

She smiled, “So… um, present sleep deprived appearance notwithstanding, am I still…”

His brows lifted as he waited for her to finish.

She sighed, “Am I still hot? Or am I losing… something?”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “Never knew you as one to fish for compliments.”

“No – I’m not. I want the truth.”

Jaime crossed his arms over his chest, “The truth is that you are – _still –_ one of the most flawless human beings I’ve ever met, inside and out.”

“Wow,” she pursed her lips, “That was a good compliment.”

Jaime snorted, “What’s going on, San?”

“Well, lately every hot guy I meet seems to avoid me like I’m on fire. And the only guys I’ve caught checking me out are ugly. I mean… eh fuck it; yes, _ugly_. Like this guy at the restaurant on Tuesday night – every time I met his eyes he looked away. Marge said ugly duckling, but that doesn’t explain everyone else.”

Jaime was staring at her and Sansa knew he was judging her for being shallow, but also not, because Jaime wasn’t a truly judgmental person. He was a bit like the male version of Marge.

He let out a put-upon sigh, “Well, you’re as hot as ever. Your ass is still a work of art, and Bronn still makes a point of whistling, shaking his head, and whispering “Damn thing should be illegal” every time you walk past him.”

Sansa winced, “Yeah but Bronn is so…”

“Yeah, I know.”

Sansa shook her head, “Alright, enough self-pity for one day. But you better tell me when I start to fade, Lannister.”

Jaime snorted, “Oh yeah, I’m sure _that_ conversation will go over well. I can see the newspaper headline now: ‘Man wakes up missing penis because he told friend she was getting flabby.’”

Sansa laughed as she walked out of his office, “Have a good day, boss.”


	3. He’s the reason statues are carved

Marge swirled the ice cubes in her cold brew as she watched Myrcella and Jeyne make their way to the café. It was Sunday morning and though they’d all been out late the night before she had called a girls meeting – _without_ Sansa – first thing this morning.

Marge got right to it, “Alright, what the fuck is up with Sansa?”

Jeyne shook her head, “I mean, honestly, I think she has a brain tumor.”

Myrcella nodded, “So, she passed on that guy who looked like he stepped right out of a Gucci ad, then spent the night dancing with the guy who looked like the “before” photo for Clearasil.”

“Do you think she’s just fucking with us because we gave her shit about being shallow?” Marge asked, then filled Myrcella in on the conversation that took place at the bar a little over a week ago.

Jeyne lifted her brows, “If she is then _hats off_ to her for committing to the ruse. All the way back to last Saturday she said some waiter looked like a young Benjamin Bratt. You know I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but he looked more like a mix between Steve Urkel and Danny Trejo.”

Marge laughed at the comparison, but continued on to address her cause for concern, “So last night I introduced her to one of my coworkers. I invited him out specifically to hook him up with Sansa so that she’ll have a date to your wedding. The guy isn’t exactly husband material, but he’s totally fuckable and just the kind of guy Sansa normally goes for.”

“And?” Myrcella asked.

“And she told me, in so many words, that she’d rather go solo than with a lizard on her arm. And apparently, she’s going to go with your uncle Jaime instead.”

Myrcella groaned, “Ugh! Does she not know that throws off all the seating? I had Jaime at a table with Uncle Tyrion, Uncle Kevan, and Grandpa. And I had Sansa with you two and Arya. Now I need to rejigger everything.”

Marge rolled her eyes. Myrcella was a laid-back girl but her wedding was bringing out her inner psycho.

Jeyne passed Marge a knowing glance, and Myrcella caught it. She blushed, “Sorry… I know these are such first world problems, but my mom is driving me nuts. You’d swear it is _her_ wedding. If anything isn’t perfect, she’s going to make me hear about it all day. And she hates Sansa. Don’t ask me why… I guess she thought Sansa was just looking for a sugar daddy when she was dating Uncle Jaime.”

“No, it’s because your mom hates Sansa’s mom,” Marge clarified.

Myrcella scrunched her face, “You think?”

“Uh, yeah! Two old families, _pinnacle of high society_ , but everyone loves Sansa’s mom and always talks about how she’s such a classy, graceful woman… aging naturally…yada yada”

Myrcella rolled her eyes, “Unlike my mom who owns stock in Botox and walks around like her shit doesn’t stink.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it…”

Myrcella laughed. Marge loved that she knew just how dysfunctional her parents were. Cold, bitter, judgmental Cersei and fat, drunk, slovenly Robert.

Jeyne sighed, “So who is going to have a talk with Sansa?”

“I have a better idea!” Marge practically jumped out of her seat as her two companions leaned in to listen intently, “So, we all think she’s doing this to fuck with us, right?”

They both nodded.

“Okay, so how about we hire someone – like an actor – someone who is exactly what she wants on the outside – tall, dark, handsome, muscular… and we create a backstory for him. Graduated top in his class, volunteers at the animal shelter, loves his parents, a little on the shy side…”

Jeyne’s eyes lit up, “Marge, you are EVIL.”

Marge smiled, “Thanks. We will invite him out with us on Friday night. We’ll pretend he’s a friend of Tris’… he’ll have to be in on it, too.”

Jeyne looked pained, “But what if she falls in love with him and then we have to tell her he isn’t a real person?”

Marge rolled her eyes, “Sansa doesn’t fall in love.”

Jeyne shook her head, “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t _want_ to. She told me she’s never been in love and kind of wants it. But also is kind of afraid of losing her independence.”

Myrcella crossed her hands over her heart, “Aww… poor Sansa!”

Marge huffed her annoyance, “Yeah, poor Sansa. Beautiful, rich, smart, funny, likeable Sansa. I really pity her. _Guys_ – she isn’t going to fall in love with him! If anything she’ll spend the night trying to pretend she’s not into him so she can maintain the ruse. Then we will all call her on it and tell her to go back to being the shallow Sansa we all know and love.”

Myrcella and Jeyne nodded their agreement, and Marge sent an email to the woman who cast the models for her grandmother’s fashion line, Black Rose.

…

Sansa was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the Monday before the wedding. She knew she’d have a great time with Jaime as her date. He was fun to talk with and a great dancer, to boot. Thursday night was Myrcella’s bachelorette party and, while Sansa didn’t look forward to the hangover that would inevitably torment her on Friday, she was excited to go out dancing all night with just her girlfriends. Lately they’d all been acutely focused on setting her up with guys that were not even remotely good looking, and Sansa knew what they were up to. They were _still_ trying to prove their point about Sansa being shallow, even though she’d already admitted as much. If she kept turning guys down on the basis of looks there’d be no denying that she was vain.

Jaime had told Sansa to stop by his office at 10:30 to meet the new Head of Personal Security. Their firm had specialized on event security but was expanding their personal security services (essentially bodyguards) due to high demand. The guy Jaime had hired was apparently someone that Jaime was old friends with, so Sansa didn’t feel weird about bringing over the tie she’d bought Jaime yesterday – the one that would perfectly match her dress for the wedding.

“Hope you don’t mind wearing pi—” Sansa’s mouth and feet stopped working as she walked into Jaime’s office and saw _him_ sitting there. Train hottie. Knight in shining armor. Tall-dark-and-I-wanna-have-his-babies.

As she stared at him and he stared back at her, her mouth finally worked again. Unfortunately the noise that came out wasn’t a word. It was more like the monosyllabic grunt that comes out with a person’s dying breath in a movie.

At least the man seemed equally shocked by her presence as she was by his. It bought her some time to think of something to say, “Hug any unsuspecting strangers lately?”

His eyes widened in confusion for a moment then softened. One corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk and he snorted, “No. It’s somewhat frowned upon, apparently.”

Sansa laughed a bit too loudly as nervous energy left her body through her mouth.

Jaime looked thoroughly confused, “Uh, Sansa heads up our contracts team. Though more accurately, it’s a one-person team, because she’s that good.”

Sansa blushed at Jaime’s open praise of her as the man stood up and extended his hand. He spoke as he shook her hand, “I’m Sandor Clegane.”

_Oh Gods! Even his name is manly. And his hand is so big. I wonder how it would feel squeezing my-- Fuck! Stop thinking about where you want his hands._

As Sansa tried to stifle the spreading blush, Jaime cleared his throat, “Sandor has worked for my dad for years. I’ve been trying to get him to come over since I started the company. Finally wore him down.”

Sansa smiled at Jaime, “Well, I’m glad you did. I mean, um…” she turned to face Sandor, “From what Jaime has said, you’re the perfect man for the job.”

_What the fuck is happening to me?! I sound like an idiot!_

This time it was Sandor who blushed, “I hope he’s right.”

“Alright, well Sandor starts tomorrow,” Jaime explained, “he just stopped by today to get the tour and meet everyone so he can dive right into his work tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded, “Makes sense. Well, Sandor, it was nice to meet you. I look forward to working with you.” Remembering the box in her hand, only now regretting she held it, she handed it to Jaime, “Here.”

She glanced at Sandor who watched the exchange closely, “It’s ‘Give your boss a pink tie day’…” she offered to break the awkwardness felt by probably no one but her.

“Really?” his face contorted in genuine surprise.

She chuckled, “No.”

His brow lifted, “Ahh… I was going to say, too bad I didn’t know; I have a whole closet full of pink ties in every imaginable shade. I could have gifted him one from my own stock.”

Sansa looked at his suit – black on black and fucking delicious. This time she was confused, “Really?”

His lip lifted into a slight smirk again, “No.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “One-nothing Sandor. I’ll see you guys later.”

Jaime knocked on Sansa’s doorframe well after lunchtime. She’d been waiting for this conversation.

He sat in one of the two chairs in her office. Since Sansa had a standing desk she moved to join him in the opposite chair so they could speak at eye level.

“So… I was going to reprimand you for staring at the poor man like he was a carnival act, but clearly you two have met before.”

Sansa sighed, “Not really. The hugging comment… he caught me when I fell asleep standing on the train. He was holding me, and I asked if he caught me and he joked that he didn’t – he’s the Flea Bottom Hugger… It sounded funnier when he said it. But we’ve never talked other than that brief exchange.”

Jaime nodded, “I see. I have to say, I thought I might learn that you and he knew each other somehow. I’ve never seen him joke like that with…”

“With what?”

Jaime shrugged, “With a woman. He’s kind of… reserved.”

“Oh… so, he’s shy?”

Jaime nodded. Sansa smiled.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I thought maybe he was gay or married or just not into me. But I can work with shy.”

“ _Work with?_ What are you talking about?”

“Look, Jaime, I don’t want to sound unprofessional, but if I have the opportunity to _fraternize_ with _that guy –_ I’m leaping on it.”

Jaime stared at her, his upper lip raised in bewilderment.

“What? The dude is like… I mean, he’s the reason statues are carved. He’s a perfect 10. I’ve never seen a perfect 10. Except you, and we already know how that worked out.”

Jaime still only stared at her.

“What? Don’t tell me your jealous!”

Jaime shook his head slowly, “So… you think Sandor is… hot?”

Sansa threw her head back and laughed sarcastically, “No, I think Chris Pratt is hot. I think Sandor Clegane is a God made flesh.”

“Soo… his face?”

“Face, body, all of it.”

Jaime scrunched his nose, “Really?”

“Yes! Why is it so hard to believe? I’ll admit he’s not _classically_ handsome, but he is the definition of rugged good looks. I mean, I want him to toss me over his shoulder and carry me to his cave.”

Jaime rubbed his forehead, “To each their own…”

“So, can you help me?”

“With what?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “With Sandor. You said you were friends. Maybe one night we can all get drinks together after work… or you can put in a good word.”

“You want me to play wingman? For you. With Sandor.”

“Yeah. I tried being friendly on the train, but he wasn’t biting. Wait – is he married?”

Jaime shook his head. Sansa breathed out an audible sigh of relief.

“And he’s not gay, right?”

Jaime shrugged, “I don’t _think_ so… I mean, I can’t remember if I ever saw him with a woman, but I’ve definitely never seen him with a man. And I’ve seen him check women out.”

“Phew. Alright, I can work with this. He’s shy, right? Gods know why, but I can work with that. I’ll just have to wear him down gradually and not overwhelm him. I can do that. I can tone it down,” Sansa nodded to instill confidence in herself.

Jaime shook his head as if to shake off a trance, “Whatever. Look, despite knowing him for years I don’t really know him well. I mean I know his character, but I know nothing about him. But I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t go for you, like, in a heartbeat.”

“Really?!” Sansa gushed.

Jaime smiled but it looked pained, “I don’t think women throw themselves at him. For obvious reasons.”

“What obvious reasons?”

Jaime huffed, “You really going to make me say it? His face.”

Sansa shrugged, “I guess he’s got an intense look… severe even.” Sansa thought about Sandor – tall, probably closer to seven feet than six, with dark hair and beard, and piercing grey eyes. She could imagine that most women leaned toward the blond-haired green-eyed Jaime Lannisters of the world. Hells, she leaned that way for a long time. She nodded at Jaime, “I imagine some women are intimidated by his appearance.”

Jaime nodded, seemingly pacified though Sansa didn’t know why he would care about her little (big) crush on Sandor.


	4. Kind of like when your grandpa says you’re pretty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Sandor POV. Shortish chapter.

“Come on you bugger,” Sandor growled at the coffee making contraption in the kitchen. When did workplaces stop having regular coffee pots in lieu of these unnecessarily complicated devices? Pick a size. Pick a strength. Pick a roast.

“Need some help?”

Sandor turned to find _her_ standing a few feet away. Just who he needed to see his inability to figure out modern technology. He probably looked like a caveman hunched over the blasted contraption, pressing buttons at random.

“Aye,” he growled, “Don’t know what’s so bad about having a regular coffee pot.”

She chuckled, “I know, but the coffee really is better, once you get the hang of using it. It grinds the beans in the machine for each cup, so it’s always fresh.”

She eyed Sandor appraisingly. He turned his head away. This girl was throwing him off balance. She looked at him like he was normal; whole. Actually, she even looked at him appreciatively, if he wasn’t mistaken. He didn’t like it.

“I venture you like dark roast, extra bold coffee. Am I right?”

Sandor nodded.

“Ok,” Sansa reached for his mug, “This looks like it’ll hold 10 ounces. So we select _French Roast_ , then _10 ounces_ , then _strong,_ then _start_. _Strong_ just makes the water run through a bit slower, so if you’re in a hurry you can skip that.”

Sandor nodded as the two of them listened and watched the coffee machine work its magic. He had to admit, it did smell better than any coffee he’d had in a long time.

It was awkward waiting in silence. The girl cleared her throat, “So, how’s your first week going so far?”

Sandor shrugged, “Not bad. Still settling in.”

“Mmm… so what are you actually doing?”

Sandor snorted, “You think I’m not doing anything?”

Her eyes widened, “No! I just meant, like are you doing sales, or do already have contracts lined up so you’re hiring? I have no idea where our Personal Protection LOB stands. Bronn has taken unofficial responsibility, and I try to avoid talking to him.”

“Oh… yeah. I’m hiring. Why do you avoid Bronn, except that he’s a cocky motherfucker?”

Sansa chuckled, “He thinks himself something of a lady’s man.”

Sandor snorted, “Aye, that he does. It’s actually embarrassing to watch. Never thought about what it’s like to be the recipient, though.”

Sansa shrugged, “It’s kind of like when your grandpa says you’re pretty. You want to be flattered, but you know he’s biased, and also don’t know if eighty-year-old-men share the same tastes as men your own age. Then again, I never felt the need to retreat backwards from my grandpa so his eyes wouldn’t linger on my ass.”

Sandor chuckled, “Yep, sounds like Bronn. For what it’s worth, he’s harmless. He… _admires_ women, and is never afraid to try his luck, but he can take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Yeah,” Sansa nodded, “I get that. Actually, as crazy as it sounds, if I was out and someone was giving me a hard time, I’d probably call Bronn before anyone else.”

Sandor tipped his head, “Aye, a good choice. Fucker actually looks forward to a fight. He’s usually on the winning side, but it’s the fight itself he likes. Doesn’t mind getting his ass kicked once in a while. Hmm… come to think of it, maybe he _is_ fucked up.”

Sansa smiled, “We’re all a _little_ fucked up, so I won’t judge… anyway, I’ve got to get back to my office… but, um… I dunno what your situation is, if you’re new to the city or… whatever. Just, if you ever want someone to show you around, let me know.” Her cheeks flushed.

Sandor blinked at her for long seconds. Eventually she just turned and left, looking disappointed. Or maybe embarrassed. Sandor didn’t know what to make of it.

_Has she just asked me on a date?_

_No, she’s just being friendly._

_But why? No one is friendly, not to me…_

Sandor took a sip of his coffee, futilely hoping the caffeine would give him clarity. It didn’t.

Women didn’t hit on him. Not in bright fluorescent break rooms. In dark bars? Occasionally. Not when they were sober. When their beer goggles were set to _extra blurry?_ Sometimes.

And the women who did hit on him didn’t look like _her._ Like she should be on the cover of a magazine. The women who hit on him were the kind that hung out with bikers. That went out of their way to prove their toughness and no-nonsense attitude, and their taste in men reflected that. This Sansa chick would probably squeeze her eyes shut on the back of his bike.

But maybe he was misjudging her. She worked in a male-dominated industry, after all, and while Jaime Lannister was a pretty boy, he knew his shit. He wasn’t one to employ a woman just because she had a pretty face.

Then again, she had given Lannister a tie. A pink tie. What was that about? Was she his errand girl? And if so, what other _favors_ did she do for the handsome heir of the Lannister fortune?

_What does it matter? Not like she’d want to be with me, anyway._

Only, it kind of seemed like she did. He had watched her out of the corner of his eye on the train. She looked like she _wanted_ to talk to him. And when he caught her, she didn’t look up at his scarred face and scream. She didn’t gape at the particularly gruesome parts of his visage. The half an eyebrow that was missing. The place his lips abruptly turned into coarse scar tissue. The jowl where hair didn’t grow. The ear that was missing a lobe. She had looked right into his eyes. No disgust. No fear. She hadn’t put distance between them. It even seemed like she enjoyed being held by him.

And Gods, how he enjoyed holding her. His strong arms around her slender frame. Her plump tush against his groin. Staring at that tush is the reason he was in a position to catch her to begin with. Every day he’d seen her prior to that Friday she’d been in dress clothes. But Friday she wore light blue jeans. They weren’t skintight, but with her hips and ass they didn’t need to be, he could see just how perfect her silhouette was.

_Fuck._

He was still standing in the kitchen like a fool in love, only now he was half hard. _More like two-thirds._

He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to think about work. It wasn’t completely successful, but when he heard some catty female voices down the hall it helped the rest of the blood drain from his cock. Women were frightened enough by his height and face. They’d probably run screaming if they had to see a bulge in his pants.


	5. I wouldn’t mind if Sandor bit me

After their third beer and enough casual conversation had passed, Sandor cleared his throat. He forced casualness into his tone, “So what’s the deal with that chick Sansa? She and Lannister – are they, like, a couple?”

Bronn smiled, “Ahh, Red. Sure does brighten up a room, doesn’t she?”

Sandor shrugged, “I guess.”

“You _guess_? That girl is the reason I go through tissues like a new widow.”

Sandor cringed, not wanting to think about Bronn sullying the girl by featuring her in his nightly fantasies. Though Sandor couldn’t say he hadn’t done the same on more than one occasion.

When Sandor remained quiet Bronn shrugged, “They used to be fuck buddies. Now they’re just friends, from what I gather. Don’t know how it’s possible to just be friends with _her_ , though.”

Sandor’s heart dropped. Any woman who dated or simply hooked up with the likes of Jaime Lannister couldn’t possibly be into Sandor. Other than above-average height the men were night and day. Jaime was handsome and charming. Sandor was decidedly unhandsome and aloof.

“Why do you ask?” Bronn asked around a belch.

“Just curious.”

“Mmhmm…” Bronn mumbled, “Right…”

“What?” Sandor grunted, though he knew exactly _what_ Bronn was hinting.

Bronn looked like he was about to call Sandor out, but his phone vibrated on the counter-height table. He answered, “Hey, boss, what’s up?”

Sandor’s ears pricked up. Obviously, Bronn was talking to Jaime.

“Yeah, big guy and I… at the Hitching Post… whatever, the more the merrier… See you soon.”

He hung up and looked at Sandor casually, “Jaime’s stopping by.”

…

Jaime apologized for the fifth time. Sansa could only tell him it wasn’t necessary so many times. Though Jaime had no bearing on his nephew’s behavior, clearly he felt guilty over it.

The wedding was beautiful. The reception had started out the same, but after an hour Joffrey was tanked, and even Marge’s gentle prodding couldn’t get him to reign it in. Cersei was no help, either. If her eldest son ever listened to his mother, Sansa wasn’t sure, but he definitely didn’t tonight. Joff made a fool of himself, slurring his words and stumbling around the reception hall of the country club like it was a frat house. Eventually, and for inexplicable reasons, he set his sights on Sansa. He made lewd comments to her, suggesting that, since his own wedding was only six months away, he and Sansa didn’t have much time left. Sansa reminded Joff that Marge was one of her best friends, though the very logical argument didn’t penetrate his drunk skull.

Later, when Sansa and Jeyne were dancing, he insinuated himself between them, practically humping Sansa on the dancefloor for all of his family to see. Jaime intervened with a politely-worded but no-less-threatening comment, and Joff surrendered – for a while.

A little while later, when Sansa went to the restroom, she found Joff waiting outside for her afterwards, and his suggestive comments continued. Sansa ignored him and walked in the direction of her table but Joff clamped his hand on her arm, pulling her against him and moving his hips in what might have been dancing, except they were standing in a hallway, not on the dancefloor. When he didn’t let go, she shoved him off, not overly hard but he was so trashed he fell against a table that held a large flower arrangement. The vase shattered on the floor and several people turned in their direction, including Marge. Marge rushed to them, bending down and preening over Joffrey like he was a toddler, not her twenty-eight-year-old fiancé.

 _“What happened?”_ Marge snapped at Sansa. It wasn’t accusatory, per se, but it grated on Sansa nonetheless.

_“What do you **think** happened?”_

Joff rose clumsily and pointed his finger at Sansa’s face, _“Your stuck-up bitch of a ffriend can’t take a joke, that’sss what.”_

To make matters worse, Cersei rushed over, sneering at Sansa before looking at Joffrey, _“Come on darling, let’s get you a glass of water.”_

Joff shook off his mom’s hand and walked on unsteady feet back toward the festivities. Jaime had approached by then and was watching in barely contained rage. Joff stumbled up to him, slurring, _“How can you ffuck her cunt without getting ffrostbite on your dick?”_

Jaime grabbed his arm, not gently, _“I think you need some air, nephew.”_

Joff yanked his arm away with the ungraceful strength of a drunk, _“I need another drink.”_

Jaime had been about to protest when Sansa called to him. He shook his head but joined her instead of following his nephew. She rubbed her forehead, waiting until after Marge and Cersei had run after Joffrey to speak, _“Look… you don’t have to leave but I’m going to. I don’t want to ruin Myrcella’s big day.”_

Jaime cursed under his breath, _“No, I’ve had enough. Let’s just say goodbye to Cella and Tris and head out, alright?”_

Now Jaime drove them toward Sansa’s apartment. She knew anger was radiating off of her skin but couldn’t help it. She was searching for some way to lighten the mood when her phone buzzed. She frowned when she saw Marge’s photo on her screen but knew ignoring the call would only invite another, then another, then another. Patience wasn’t one of Marge’s virtues.

“Hey Marge,” she answered.

_“You left without saying goodbye?”_

Sansa sighed loudly into the phone, “You were with Joffrey. I didn’t want to give him any more opportunity to make a scene. So we just left.”

_“San, you know he was just messing around.”_

Sansa felt tears prickling her eyes. Was Marge really that blind to Joffrey’s behavior or did she willingly overlook it, even at the cost of hurting her close friend?

“Marge, I don’t want this to become a thing between us, but he isn’t just messing around. He pretty much told me that we should fuck now while we have the chance – meaning before you get married.”

_“What do you mean ‘pretty much’?”_

Sansa snorted, “I was trying to be polite. He didn’t insinuate, and he wasn’t joking. Honestly, Marge, what do you see in him?”

_“Wow… judgmental much?”_

“Um, more like a friend looking out for you. You’re engaged. If he’s willing to fuck your best friend now, what do you think will stop him when you’re married?”

_“You know, today was about Myrcella and Tris. Couldn’t you just take the stick out of your ass for once and stop acting like you’re better than everyone?”_

“Excuse me?”

_“It’s a fucking wedding! People get drunk. People laugh and joke around and have a good time.”_

“What part of your fiancé propositioning me, then dry humping me, then accosting me outside the restroom sounds like a good time to you?”

_“It’s just Joff being Joff.”_

“And that’s okay with you?”

_“Whatever. No guy is ever good enough for you, and you think all of us should share your impossibly high standards.”_

“Um, no. I just think you’re too good to settle for a sleaze bag like him.”

_“Sleaze bag? Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”_

Sansa’s blood was up, “You know, I _thought_ you might be calling to see how I’m doing after your fiancé harassed me all night. But since all you truly care about is your precious Joffrey, I guess I _will_ tell you what I really think. He’s a spoiled brat with no redeeming qualities, and on top of that he’s a womanizing, philandering prick who isn’t worthy of _looking_ in your direction. But then again, the way you’re talking to me right now makes me wonder if you don’t deserve each other. Goodbye, Marge.”

Sansa ended the call and closed her eyes. It was one thing to endure Joff’s generally dislikeable personality. His arrogance, his crude sense of humor. Sansa could even endure the occasional lewd comment he’d made toward her over the years. But tonight was too much. Marge’s reaction was too much. If Marge continued her relationship with Joffrey, she was going to lose a friend, as much as Sansa didn’t want that to come to pass.

After a minute passed Jaime grasped her hand, “You alright?”

“Fucking wonderful,” she groaned.

Jaime didn’t press for a change, and she was glad. She didn’t want to talk about or think about Joffrey Baratheon. She needed a distraction. _Badly_.

“I wanna get tanked. You in?” she asked.

Jaime’s eyes widened then his lips split into a grin, “I’m in. And I know just whose company we need right now.”

At the next stop light he scrolled through his contacts and tapped Bronn’s name.

“Seriously?” she asked.

While the line rang Jaime smiled, “He may be a man whore, but who better to make you laugh and cheer up?”

Sansa shrugged, “You’re right. That much he’s good for.”

She listened to one half of the one-minute conversation. After Jaime hung up, he was smiling mischievously, “Play your cards right and maybe you can find _another_ way to take your mind off of Joffrey.”

“What?”

Jaime shook his head, “You’ll see…”

…

Sandor scowled at Bronn when Lannister walked in – with Sansa by his side. Bronn only shrugged innocently, hands held up in a “what did I do?” gesture.

The well-dressed pair joined them, stealing chairs from a nearby table. Sansa didn’t waste a moment before ordering a double of Tanqueray with club soda and a splash of sour. She downed it before Jaime had even made a dent in his gin and tonic.

“Slow down, Red,” Bronn smirked, “No need to catch up with us, we’ve only been nursing beers for a couple hours.”

“I’m not trying to catch up. I’m trying to _spectacularly_ exceed you.”

“Oh yeah?” Bronn’s brow lifted, “What’s the occasion?”

“Want to black out and wake up with no recollection that today ever happened. An all-day hangover will be a small price to pay.”

Bronn grinned like a fool, “Woman after my own heart. You can tell us all about this shitty day of yours… in one minute.” He motioned over the waitress and ordered shots of whiskey all around. Sandor felt the need to caution the girl against mixing liquors but didn’t think it was his place.

When the shots were delivered, Jaime rolled his eyes, “Guess I’m Ubering home.” He tossed the shot back in sync with his companions.

“So,” Bronn started, but Sansa’s phone rang. She smiled when she looked at the screen and tilted it toward Jaime who chuckled.

She winked toward Bronn and Sandor, “This ought to be good,” before swiping to accept the call.

“Hey Arya.”

_“What the fuck, San?! Jeyne told me what happened. Why did you leave like a fucking puss instead of getting me to kick that blond fucker in his wormy little dick?!”_

All the men laughed, even Sansa grinned, “Didn’t want to make a scene, for Myrcella’s sake. Where were you, anyway? I saw you for like five minutes then you disappeared.”

_“Oh… Gen and I helped ourselves to a tour of the country club.”_

“Seriously, Arya? You have your own apartment, why must you find increasingly un-private places to have sex?”

Sandor felt his eyes widen.

_“Keeps things interesting. Like you should talk anyway. Didn’t you fuck Jaime in an elevator once?”_

Sansa’s cheeks burned red and she took the phone off speaker, “I’m never telling you anything again!”

Jaime was staring at the ceiling, avoiding Sandor and Bronn’s gazes. For one of few times in his life Sandor wanted to throttle his friend, no matter that said elevator encounter no doubt happened long before Sandor had even laid eyes on Sansa Stark.

“Yeah, we’re at the Hitching Post.”

“No, some guys from work are here.”

Sansa smirked, “Yeah, the loudmouth,” she stuck her tongue out at Bronn.

“Alright. Drive safe. You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Ah, Gendry’s the DD? What a shock.”

“No, we can mastermind Joffrey’s downfall another time. I plan on being utterly schnockered tonight, and helplessly hungover tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too. Night.”

Sansa hung up, “That was my little sister, Arya.”

Sandor stared between Jaime and Sansa, “Joffrey as in Joffrey _Baratheon_? Your nephew?”

Jaime nodded, “The one and only.”

Sandor was trying to piece together what happened, “You guys were with him today?”

“Yeah, at my niece’s wedding. A time of merriment for all, except for Sansa who was the unwilling victim of Joffrey’s complete douchiness all night.”

“Uh, _no_ …” Sansa crossed her arms, “Douchiness is his default setting. Tonight he was downright sociopathic. Wait, sociopaths are the charming ones, right? Then he was _psychopathic_.”

Sandor clenched his hands into fists below the table. Joffrey was a little cunt. Sandor didn’t know him well but had been in proximity to him enough times over the years to know he was a complete bastard.

“What happened?” Sandor found himself asking.

As Jaime and Sansa recounted the entire reception, over the course of two more shots, Sandor’s blood was boiling. Jealousy over handsome Jaime Lannister was long forgotten. All Sandor could picture was Joffrey’s dainty little hands all over Sansa. He wanted to find the fucker and kill him – _literally_ kill him. He knew Bronn would help take care of the body.

After another shot, he was saying this out loud, unable to stop himself. He was no lightweight, but he didn’t drink liquor as much as he used to, and he could tell he was pretty tipsy.

Sansa stared across the table at him in awe, “First you save me from faceplanting onto the urine-covered subway floor, now you offer to kill my tormentors? You’re like, my _hero_.”

Okay, so she was obviously drunk, too. That made him feel better.

Bronn called over the waiter for another round but Jaime held his hands up, “Look, as much as I’d love to close the place down with you guys, I’m supposed to have brunch with my dad tomorrow. It’s bad enough being in his presence _without_ a hangover.” He turned to Sansa, “You alright staying with these scoundrels?”

She nodded over-earnestly, “Yup. Bronn’s all bark and no bite. And I wouldn’t mind if Sandor bit me.” Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her lips as she heard her own words.

As a rarity, Sandor felt his own cheeks burning at her admission. Jaime shot Sandor a look that wasn’t exactly threatening but wasn’t over-friendly, either. If Sandor’s drunk mind interpreted it correctly, it said: _she’s an adult who can do what she wants, but she might be too drunk to know what she wants._

In an uncharacteristic act of responsibility Bronn ordered another round of shots, this time with water chasers. Then he made Sansa drink the entire glass of water while she scowled at him like a petulant child.

“Marge should be with someone like _you,”_ Sansa pointed an unsteady finger at Bronn.

“Is Marge the hot brunette?”

Sansa nodded before pursing her lips in concentration, “Wait, Jeyne and Marge are both hot brunettes. Marge is the one who dresses like a slut though; Jeyne dresses like a schoolgirl.”

Bronn nodded, “I was referring to the slutty one.”

“Yes,” Sansa’s head bobbed up and down, “She says she’s with Joff because they have fun together. But she could have fun with someone like you. You joke around, you make your remarks, but you manage to say them without sounding all _rapey.”_

“Why thank you, Red. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I should’ve gotten you plastered years ago.”

Sansa nodded definitively, “You’re _welcome_.”

“What about big guy, here? Could she have a good time with him?”

Sansa shook her head with equal fervor, “I’ll kill the bitch.”

Sandor couldn’t understand much less believe what was happening. First the _biting_ comment, now acting jealous. She didn’t even know him. They’d spoken three times, each brief and inconsequential conversations. Sure they joked a bit. Sandor was glad to find she had a sense of humor, and wasn’t an airhead, but what did she see in him that made her look past all the ugliness?

Sansa went to wave down the passing waiter and Sandor grabbed her hand, “I think you’ve had enough.”

She looked at his hand then at his face, “I haven’t blacked out yet.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “That really what you aspire to?”

She nodded.

“Well, then we’re going to have to carry you out of here. You really want to make us do that?”

“It won’t be hard. You’re so big and strong. And I’m light. I only weigh 125.” She squinted her eyes, “That’s a lie. I weigh 136… but it’s not my fault, some fucker always brings in bagels or muffins. Cinnamon raisin bagels and lemon poppy seed muffins are, like, my weakness.”

Bronn chuckled heartily, “That’s alright Red, men don’t like women who are sticks.”

“Aww, thanks Bronn… What’s taking them so long to bring our drinks?”

“We didn’t order any, Red.”

“Why not?”

“Cause big guy says you’re cut off.”

“Why?”

Sandor rubbed his eyes, “Because anymore and this night is going to end with lots of vomit.”

She shook her head, “Nope… I haven’t puked since senior year. Except that one time I got bad sushi. Let that be a lesson: if it smells funny, _don’t_ put it in your mouth.”

Bronn nodded, “Aye, goes for seafood and women.”

Sansa laughed so hard she snorted. It wasn’t a ladylike sound, but Sandor wanted to hear it again and again.

When an upbeat song came on the jukebox, Sansa sat forward with excitement, “We should dance. I didn’t get to dance much tonight because he who shall not be named kept trying to hump me every time I was on the dancefloor.”

Sandor’s momentary amusement was shattered once more by images of Joffrey manhandling Sansa.

Sansa hopped down from her chair and stood in front of Sandor, “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Ask Pepe le Pew over here,” he jerked his thumb toward Bronn, “I don’t dance, girl.”

She frowned, “Then what do you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you go out, and a woman asks you to dance, you never do it? Or only with me?” she frowned.

He stared at her, “How often do you think women ask me to dance, girl?”

She shrugged, “All the time?”

He glanced at Bronn but got no explanation from his friend.

…

Sansa stood staring at Sandor. Some part of her brain that was still sober reminded her that he was shy, but she couldn’t help but be insulted that he didn’t want to dance with her. It felt personal.

_Of course it’s personal. You’re drunk and practically throwing yourself at him. And now he knows you’ve fucked Jaime. He probably thinks you’re a slut._

The moment of clarity was enough to sober her just enough to realize she’d been making a fool of herself. Remembering that she’d see both these men on Monday made her stomach clench.

_Fucking idiot, idiot, idiot!_

She tried to summon some dignity during the silence that fell upon them. She smiled weakly, “I guess I’m all talk. I don’t really want to be hungover all day tomorrow.” She pulled a bunch of twenties out of her tiny purse and dropped them on the table, “See you Monday.” She left without looking back.

Once outside she leaned against the building and tried to let the cool summer breeze sober her.

She stood among the throng of smokers while she pulled up the Uber app on her phone. Looking at the screen made her realize just how drunk she was. As she fumbled with the phone a large hand gripped her wrist gently. She followed the arm up to find Sandor’s face looking at her apologetically.

“Come on,” he bid her.

She followed him into a cab.


	6. I’m not entirely certain you’re not crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we saw Sansa, she was drunk outside a bar after unsuccessfully mackin' on Sandor all night. As she tried to operate her phone while drunk (very dangerous, kids!) Sandor appeared like a modern day knight in shining armor and got them both in a cab.

Sansa woke up with a throbbing head and a sour mouth. She kept her eyes clamped shut, knowing sunlight was on the other side of her eyelids, ready to torment her.

Sleep never returned and she eventually opened her eyes – only to realize she wasn’t in her own bed.

“Fuck!” she cursed out loud. It wasn’t Jaime’s bedroom, which meant she was in either Sandor or Bronn’s bed. Or worse – what if some random guy from the bar had taken advantage of her inebriated state and taken her home?

She lifted the grey bedsheets and was relieved to find she was still in her dress from the wedding, including bra and underwear.

She ignored her churning stomach and aching head and crept out of the room, finding a bathroom the next door down. She peed like a racehorse then set aside propriety to look through the medicine cabinet, thanking the Gods when she found mouthwash. While she gargled away the aftertaste of whiskey, she used a tissue to wipe smudged makeup off her eyes. Then, she took a deep breath and prepared herself for what she was sure would be an embarrassing reunion.

She tiptoed toward a source of noise and found Sandor’s large figure in the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of coffee. When he saw her, he stopped moving, coffee pot suspended in the air over his mug.

“Um, good morning,” she said.

“Good morning. Um… coffee?”

She shook her head, “Water?”

He nodded and got her a bottle from the fridge.

“Thanks. Um…” before she could continue Sandor gestured for her to sit at a small table. She nodded and he sat down across from her though kept staring at the coffee pot as if it was fascinating.

“Anyway, I don’t know how I got here but obviously—”

“You fell asleep in the cab before I got your address. I know I could have found it on your ID but… well it felt weird to go through your purse, and it felt wrong to just plop you in your house and leave. I’m sorry if… if you were startled when you woke up.”

“No! I- I mean yes, for a second, but no, I’m not startled to be here. With you. I know you wouldn’t… anyway, I need to apologize and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

His eyes lowered, “No need to apologize, girl. If I faulted you for drinking a little too much, then I’d be a pretty big hypocrite.”

“No, I meant... Well, yes, I’m sorry you had to deal with me and probably carry me into your house, but I meant that I’m sorry for the way I spoke and acted last night.”

“What do you mean?” his forehead creased in obvious confusion, or else she’d think he was making this purposely difficult.

Her cheeks heated, “I kind of feel like I kept hitting on you even though you obviously weren’t – _aren’t_ – interested. You didn’t lead me on or anything, you made it very clear you’re not attracted to me, but I guess I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was like – your Joffrey!” she rested her forehead in her hands.

The chair squeaked as he shifted his weight, “I’m not… I’m not _not_ attracted to you. I just don’t think you really want that. With me.”

She looked up, “Because I was drunk? I can assure you, you caught my attention from the first time I saw you on the train. I tried to be friendly, but you obviously weren’t interested.”

“I am. Interested. I’m just not—”

“Please,” she lifted a hand, “I’m a big girl. You don’t need to try to let me down easy, or whatever you’re trying to do.”

When she chanced a glance back in his direction, she found he was staring at her.

He shook his head, “I don’t fucking understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“You. Wanting me. I mean… _why?”_

She rolled her eyes, “I’d ask if you own a mirror, but I saw it in your bathroom, so…”

Sandor placed his hands flat on the table, slowly and deliberately, “Are you saying you find me… _attractive_?” he annunciated the word like he was using it for the first time.

“Uh, yeah. Because I have eyes.”

“But…” his face contorted in confusion, “Why?”

She huffed, “Dude, if this is your way of fishing for a compliment, can you please take mercy on the fact that I’m already dying of embarrassment? And a pretty bad hangover.”

He groaned in apparent frustration, “Look, pretty girls like you don’t go for me. This isn’t… I feel like I’m out of my depth here.”

Sansa offered a weak smile. She could tell his words were genuine, even if he was completely wrong.

“Maybe you just don’t _notice_ that girls are into you, because you’re self-conscious. But you have no reason to be. You’re like… perfect. A ten. And you’re also funny and kind, from the little I know of you.”

Sandor shook his head, “Maybe I _didn’t_ catch you on the train. Maybe you did fall and knock your head, because that’s the only explanation I have for why _you_ would be saying these things to _me_. You’re the one that’s bloody perfect. You’re the one that’s funny and kind. People aren’t nice to me like you are… They just aren’t.”

Sansa was beginning to suspect there was something bigger at play here than a slightly warped self-image or ugly duckling syndrome. Sandor seemed very vulnerable. She wondered about his past, if he’d been abused as a child, or perhaps betrayed very badly by a girlfriend. He seemed like the dog that had been beaten for so long that when someone finally showed him some kindness, he couldn’t even recognize it and acted skittish or snappy as a result.

The realization should have had her running for the hills. _Baggage, much?_ But that wasn’t her style. She couldn’t see someone who had suffered and _not_ reach out a helping hand.

She did just that, literally, reaching out and slowly taking his hand.

“I get that it might be hard for you to admit your own virtues, but as an objective outsider, I’m telling you, you’ve got them. Maybe… I dunno… maybe you should give yourself a chance to be okay in your skin.”

She thought to leave it at that but then Sandor was leaning across the table, holding her head with his large hand and pressing his lips to hers. It was over too quickly, Sandor breaking it off with wide-eyed wonder as if he hadn’t been in control of his own body.

He shook his head, “I’m not entirely certain you’re not crazy, but if you insist that there is something about me you like, then who am I to argue? I think there’s a saying about not arguing with a crazy person.”

Sansa chucked, “I think _you’re_ the crazy person.”

Sandor smirked, “So… I can drive you home if you want. I mean, no rush, but you probably want to shower at your own place, change into your clothes. But maybe later, if you’re not busy, and if you want to… and it’s okay if you don’t…

Sansa laughed, “Sandor, would you like to grab a bite later?”

He rolled his eyes in a self-deprecating fashion, “I was getting there.”

“I know,” she smiled.

…

The more shyly Sandor acted, the more charming Sansa found him to be. It was such a contradiction – this big hunk of super-fine man that seemed to struggle to hold her eye contact, and blushed when she said anything even remotely complimentary.

They ate a retro-style diner near Sansa’s apartment in the middle of the afternoon – it took that long from her stomach to recover from the copious amounts of gin and whiskey she drank the night before.

“So… just so you know, I don’t normally drink that much,” she said by way of addressing the elephant in the room that perhaps was only visibly to her.

Sandor snorted, “I figured. You did pretty well, though, considering. And you didn’t spend all day today bent over the toilet, so you should be proud.”

Sansa laughed, “Thanks, though ‘proud’ isn’t the word I’d use.” She sighed then, “After the whole thing with Joffrey… I just needed a distraction. And I felt bad for making Jaime leave the wedding early; figured we could keep the night going a little longer.”

Sandor leaned forward then leaned back, mouth opening and shutting several times as he did.

“What?” she asked.

Sandor put his hands flat on the table as he’d done that morning in his kitchen. It was adorable how he seemed to need to ground himself before saying something he was afraid to say.

“Look. It’s not my business, only it kinda is, since you expressed your… _interest_ in me. Jaime and I have known each other since I was a teenager. And—”

“You want to know about my relationship with Jaime?”

Sandor nodded, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. We all work together, Jaime and I are friends, you and Jaime are friends… It’s totally okay to ask. The truth is, we started hooking up about a year after I joined the company. We were both working insane hours and often alone together at the office, so it just kind of happened. And it continued happening for a while but when we tried actual dating it felt wrong. So we decided to go back to just being colleagues. And friends. Nothing more. And it’s been that way ever since. There’s no weirdness. We even act as each other’s wingman sometimes. In fact, I told him that I had a crush on you the day you stopped by the office and if he could help… eh, you know…” the last part came out unplanned and Sansa looked out the window, willing the blood to get the fuck out of her cheeks.

Sandor’s eyebrows raised almost to his hairline, “A _crush?_ On _me?”_

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Yes! Seriously, why is it so hard to believe? Surely other women have told you the same before?”

Sandor shook his head, “I don’t socialize with many women.”

“Well, if you did, they’d tell you the same thing. Believe me. I speak on behalf of all women.”

“If you say so...”

“I say so!” Sansa crossed her arms defiantly only to wonder if it was wise to be so honest with Sandor. Would he start noticing other women’s flirtations that he’d, apparently, been oblivious to his entire life? Would he realize he could do better than Sansa?

She chided herself and decided not to worry about that. He deserved to feel good about it, and she had to trust in karma one day rewarding her with some (all) of his affection.

She cleared her throat, “Now, tell me about yourself. You worked for Tywin Lannister?”

“Aye, private security. I’d been his personal bodyguard for years and eventually supervised the entire security team for Casterly Rock. His estate.”

Sansa nodded, “So this must be a big change for you. Not just one client but potentially many.”

“Yeah. But it’s not too much different. Just think of it as a bigger pyramid. Now I will have guys below me doing what I used to do for Mr. Lannister. Most important thing for me is to make sure the guys I hire are top notch and stay that way. Make sure they’re not getting into any kind of trouble – gambling, drugs, that sort of thing.”

“So will you do sales, too?”

“Fuck, I hope not. I couldn’t sell a steak to a starving man. The way Jaime explained it I may be involved in sales, but I won’t be out doing… I forget what he called it.”

“Business development?”

“Yeah, that. I don’t mind going and talking to the prospects about our services, our hiring standards, our security methods…”

“I know what you mean. I’m kind of in the same boat. I help write the contracts we have with our customers, so there’s still a bit of sales involved, if there are last minute negotiations, but I don’t have to go out and generate leads. I don’t think I could do that. I prefer being behind the scenes.”

Sandor snorted, “Seems like a waste to have you back in your office, reading through contracts with your red pen.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sandor held his palms up as if it should be obvious, “You’re outgoing, friendly, pretty… I’d buy something I don’t even _need_ from you.”

Sansa couldn’t fight the grin, “Like what?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Like… a fancy coffee machine that grinds the beans for each cup.”

Sansa laughed, “What else?”

“And…” Sandor looked around the table, “Ketchup! I hate ketchup!”

“And?”

Sandor shook his head, “Enough. Suffice to say if you’re selling it, I’m buying it.”

“Good to know,” Sansa winked, and Sandor’s reaction was priceless. His jaw dropped open and his eyes widened.

Sansa threw her head back and laughed, “You’re fun to rile up, you know that?”

Sandor shrugged, “No. No one’s ever tried to rile me up. Except Bronn. And Lannister, occasionally. Oh and Lannister’s brother.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m the first woman who has riled you up?”

Sandor groaned, “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be the death of me?”

Sansa reached across the table and took his hand. Sandor stared at their hands in wonder before squeezing back.

“I take that as a compliment,” she said proudly.

A few giggles drew Sansa’s attention and she turned to see a table of teenage girls passing sideways glances at her and Sandor.

Sansa looked down at herself. She hadn’t exactly dressed to impress since they decided to go to a diner, and no doubt after last night she wasn’t looking her best, but she didn’t she looked _horrible._ But clearly the girls were trying to reconcile her and her companion, as they would look from him to her then back to him then back to her, then whisper amongst themselves.

Insecurity converted to anger at their blatant and rude behavior. Sansa turned to face them head-on, “Can we help you?”

The girls turned away so quickly that Sansa grinned victoriously. Hanging out with Arya and Marge had taught her not to take shit from anyone. Though confrontation still made her stomach churn, she no longer sat back and let other people be disrespectful.

When she turned back at Sandor he was staring at her again. He looked at her sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“About those girls… you didn’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah, I did, they’re a bunch of catty little bitches. Someone needs to put them in line.”

Sandor snorted, “I guess I’ve gotten used to it. I used to sneer and bark whenever someone acted like that.”

“I know… this city is filled with assholes. Sometimes enforcing manners feels like a full-time job.”

Sandor nodded, “Aye. Can’t throw a pebble in this city without hitting an asshole.”

Sansa chuckled. When Sandor let his guard down, he was funny.

They ate the rest of their meal mostly in silence, interrupted by occasional comments and – more often – secret looks exchanged over the table. Sansa would look up and find Sandor watching her. He’d look away. Or he’d look up and find her watching him, in which case she’d smile and he’d shake his head in good-natured admonishment.

After their meal the sun was low but there were still a couple hours of daylight left. They decided to walk aimlessly, stretching their legs and digesting their food. Sansa noticed that Sandor caught the eye of men and women alike. His height obviously made him stand out in a crowd, but she was sure more than a few of the double-takes were due to his handsomeness, which bordered on unfair.

 _Actually, no_ border _about it. It’s unfair how good he looks._

The only time Sansa ever felt jealous like this was when she strolled arm-in-arm with Jaime. Women would openly swoon at Jaime, who was either oblivious or polite enough to ignore them when in Sansa’s company. Sandor wasn’t oblivious, but he didn’t seem to like the attention. He’d often fidget with his shoulder-length hair, or lower his head, after someone looked at him. She really needed to figure out how such a perfect specimen of a man could be so insecure. Marge’s ugly duckling theory was a possible explanation, but Sansa couldn’t exactly ask to see his old family photos after only one date.

“So did you grow up near Lannisport, like Jaime?”

Sandor nodded, “A bit further inland, but yeah.”

“Mmm… does your family still live there?”

He shook his head, “Got no family.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Better off without them.”

_So not the ugly duckling. The kicked dog._

Sansa didn’t want to pry so instead she talked about her own family, “I have four siblings. Three boys and one tomboy.”

“And yet here you are,” Sandor’s mouth curved into a subtle smirk.

“Here I am… wait, what?”

“All ladylike and pretty. Always dressed nicely, put together well.” 

Sansa looked down at herself, “I’m wearing jeans and a gray tee-shirt.”

“Aye, and you still manage to look like a movie star.”

“Wow… here I was thinking I was having a bad… _everything_ day.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Sansa gripped his hand and leaned her head against the side of his meaty shoulder, “A girl could get used to this.”

As solid as he was her unexpected contact shifted him a half step over and he bumped into a young man walking with a few of his friends.

Sandor mumbled a sorry but after the guys were several steps behind them the one who’d been bumped turned around and threw his arms up, “Watch where you’re going, freak!”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open. She was appalled! Yes, Sandor was uncommonly tall, but for some pock-marked guy with greasy hair to call _him_ a freak? He’d hardly bumped the guy, had apologized for it, and the fucker had the nerve to call him a freak?!

Sansa turned around, “Hey asshole, if you’re too pussy to say it until your fifteen feet away then zip your wormy lips!”

The other guys laughed at their friend’s expense, and though he made a show of _almost_ walking back toward Sandor and Sansa, they turned him around and kept walking in the opposite direction.

“Fucking dicks!” Sansa mumbled as she turned back to face Sandor.

She was expecting him to look amused or even proud that she’d defended him, but he was staring over her head with his lips pressed in a hard line, and anger simmering in his eyes.

“You don’t have to fucking defend me,” he dropped her hand and continued walking.

“Hey, sorry if I embarrassed you. But that guy was an asshole.”

“Aye, and as we’ve already established, the city’s filled with ‘em. If you’re gonna stop and say something to everyone who looks at me cross, it’ll take us an hour to walk a block, and eventually you’re gonna get me dragged into an altercation. I don’t need that shit.”

Sansa was insulted but could see the merit of his argument. There were four guys in that group. While none were as big as Sandor, she doubted one against four were good odds for anyone.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t think before I talk.”

“It’s fine… let’s just… I’ll walk you back to your apartment.”

“What?! No! I’m sorry Sandor! Don’t ruin our day because of it!”

He shook his head but ultimately relented, “Fine. What do you want to do?”

She took her time thinking about what they could do at 5 o’clock on a Sunday when they were both dressed casually, and both needed to get up for work the next morning. It was more than tempting to ask him if he wanted to “hang out” at her place, and hope that he knew that was code for _please let me ride your cock so hard that my legs won’t work afterwards._

But as shy as he was, that would be way too forward for him. But she also wanted to make it clear that she liked him and not just in a platonic way. She desperately wanted to prove her attraction to him, and not just through some come-ons while she was tanked.

She smiled up at him, “Wanna catch a movie and make out in the back row like we’re teenagers?”

His response was seventeen rapid eye blinks on an otherwise unmoving face. She laughed at his stunned response then grabbed him by the hand and hailed a cab.


	7. Since when do women like me?

“You need to help me figure this shit out, or I’m going to go crazy,” Sandor paced Bronn’s office on Monday afternoon.

“What’s there to figure out? She likes you; you like her.”

“Yes but _why_? Since when do women like me? Women like her, anyway…”

Bronn shrugged, “Beats me. I don’t even like you, and I’m your best friend.”

Sandor stopped walking to glare at Bronn, “You’re not my best friend.”

“Fine, then I’m your only friend. Same difference.”

“You’re not my only- Fuck, are you gonna help me or not?!”

“I’d love to, mate, only I have no idea what you need help with, unless it’s been so long that you’ve forgotten how to use your pecker. If that’s the case, might I recommend watching some porn?”

Sandor groaned, “Why does Sansa Stark – pretty, smart, funny, sweet, successful Sansa Stark… Sansa Stark who can date the likes of Jaime Lannister and probably any other guy in the city that she wants – why is she into _me_?”

“Again… beats me.”

“Do you think she’s a nutjob?”

Bronn teetered his hand in the air, “Doubt it. Lannister and I have known her for years. If she’s crazy, she hides it well.”

“Then is it a pity thing? Does she feel bad for me and is trying to, I dunno, throw me a bone? Give me an ego boost. Is this some type of public service for her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I did!”

“And?”

“And she said I’m nice and funny and honest and…”

“And?”

Sandor lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, “And hot.”

Bronn began chuckling but when Sandor clenched his fists he stopped, “Look… is it that hard to believe? You’re tall, well-built… I know how you feel about your scars, but maybe she looks past them.”

“Looks _past_ them? She acts like they’re not even there. Not _once_ has she stared at my scars. Not once has she looked at me with disgust or fear or even fucking curiosity.”

Bronn stood up and placed his hands on Sandor’s shoulders, only to have said hands promptly shaken off, “Look, how about you stop wondering why and just enjoy yourself for a change?! Have fun, see where it goes.”

“You make it sound so easy…” Sandor remarked sharply.

“Fine, then throw away your chance with a girl who’s one in a million. All I know is, if I just spent yesterday evening making out with her in a movie theatre, my reaction would be a whole lot different than yours, and I’m not exactly a catch myself.”

“Wow… you finally noticed?”

Bronn snorted, “See – sense of humor. Women like that; trust me. Now go ask her on another date before someone else steals her out from under your nose.”

Despite his own instincts, Sandor took Bronn’s advice. He made his way to Sansa’s office only to find her occupied with a girl and guy who looked like interns. Sansa was patiently explaining some assignment to them. She was like a pretty little schoolteacher, not getting irritated when they asked questions, her voice never sounding patronizing or cocky.

Sandor stood off to the side, a couple feet down the hall, not wanting to stare at them like a creeper.

Eventually the pair exited. The boy was chubby and seemed to exert himself just by walking. The girl was a petite thing, and not unpretty, but had very noticeable psoriasis on the right side of her face - scaly, red, and inflamed. Her eyes met Sandor’s and she smiled brightly at him. He dipped his head in response instead of offering his trademark scowl. It wasn’t every day he met a fellow human that could relate to having some very visible flaw or disfigurement on your face for the world to see.

He knocked on Sansa’s doorframe and she looked over at him with a smile.

“Hey, got a minute?”

“Of course,” she pointed to a seat and he took it while she took the one across from him. He noted that her “desk” was little more than a podium where she stood and typed away at her PC.

_Fuck. I’m not ready for this._

“I’m glad you came by,” Sansa said when he went too long being silent.

“You are?”

“Yeah. It’s nice to see you, of course, but I also wanted to ask you something.”

_Thank God I didn’t ask her on a date yet. She’s going to ask me if we can forget about yesterday._

“Alright…” he braced himself.

“I really had fun with you yesterday and was hoping you might want to hang out again. Dinner, a movie… or whatever you do for fun.”

“You’re asking me on a date?” Sandor knew it was a stupid question, but he needed 110% certainty before making a fool of himself.

She chuckled, “Yeah. Not sure how else it could have been construed.”

“Right. Well, actually that’s what I was coming to ask you. So yes. My answer’s yes.”

“Good. You free on Thursday?”

“Aye,” he answered too quickly.

“Alright. We can go right after work if you want. Maybe just to a tavern or something. So we can eat, have a few drinks. If that’s alright with you.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, good.”

Sansa nodded, “Sooo… everything good?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Sandor rose and walked to her door. “Well, I’ll see you Thursday. I mean, I’ll see you before then, but also…” he groaned at himself, but Sansa only giggled. The more of a bumbling mess he was, the more she seemed to like him. And it never seemed condescending. She was genuinely enamored by his complete and utter inability to talk to women about anything but private security.

She was too good to be true. Which in Sandor’s experience, meant the other shoe was bound to drop.

…

Things were going so fast that Sandor’s head was spinning.

Thursday night he and Sansa dined at a pub. Despite his lingering insecurities, he’d done alright for himself, having Sansa laughing and giggling almost nonstop with stories about shit he’d seen and done over the years. More than a few involved Bronn and two of Sandor’s other friends, Beric and Thoros.

Sansa shared equally humorous tales of her siblings, namely her little sister.

The night ended with a kiss outside the door of Sansa’s walk-up in a cheap but not seedy section of town. Judging by the look in her eyes, she was thinking about inviting him in, and while his cock was more than ready for that, his mind wasn’t. Before she could ask, he backed away and bid her goodnight.

Now it was late Saturday night. They’d had dinner and drinks in the same pub and somehow ended up on Sansa’s couch, making out like a pair of teenagers for the second time in one week.

To Sandor’s utter confusion she showered him with kisses, not just on his lips but on his neck and cheeks – good side and bad. By the time she straddled his lap, still fully clothed, he was already hard as a rock. Her rocking and grinding her sweet little body against him was both heaven and hell. He was about to tell her they needed to stop, because his self-control was on the verge of snapping, when she ran her fingers lightly up his abdomen, beneath his shirt.

Restraint officially snapped, he decided not to care. They were adults. They knew what they were doing. They didn’t have to let some arbitrary amount of time go by before they could be intimate with one another.

He flipped her onto her back on the sofa, deciding that if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. Kneeling on the floor beside her, he kissed and nibbled her neck while his hands worked her shirt up. She didn’t even hesitate before sitting up long enough to pull the shirt over her head, then pulled Sandor back down.

With more of her flesh now exposed his explorations became more adventurous. He kissed his way down to her breasts, round and perfect in a lacy pink bra. Her belly quivered as he trailed lower, until he was stopped by the hem of her black jeans. He had enough presence of mind to glance at her. She bit her lip nervously but nodded her permission.

He peeled off the stretchy denim then leaned back on his heels to take all of her in. She was all creamy white skin, perfect and soft. He didn’t need to undress to know that once he did, they’d look like night and day. Him tan and hairy and scarred and uncommonly big. Her fair and smooth and perfect and slender.

He evicted the worrisome realization and instead resumed his kissing, now on her thighs. She trembled and wriggled with need and it put Sandor at ease enough that he could continue with his plan to do things right. Only Sansa seemed to have other ideas as she suddenly sat up and scooted to the edge of the sofa where he knelt on the floor.

_She doesn’t want your ruined lips between her legs, doesn’t want to feel your fucked up, leathered skin against the inside of her soft thigh…_

Her arms draped over his shoulders as her feet planted on the floor astride his knees. Her lips pressed against his so sweetly that he didn’t know what do believe.

After that kiss – possibly the most tender of his life if he could ignore the way her pelvis was pressed against his aching cock – she backed away just enough to speak.

“Sandor, I fear I’m about to ruin this, but I need to tell you…”

_Here it comes. The other shoe. “I thought I could get past your scars, but I can’t. I don’t want to go any further.”_

“…Gods, I know I’m going to sound clingy, but I _really_ like you. And I want to do this so badly it hurts, but not if this is just – and I’m not saying your _that_ kind of guy _–_ but I just need to be sure… If this is just a random hookup to you, I can’t do it.”

It took several silent moments for Sandor to process her words, much less formulate a response, “Sansa, are you saying you want this to be _more_ than a hookup? Meaning… meaning what? That you want us to date, or… something?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let it get this far without asking you. It’s just… we haven’t known each other all that long, and I’ve never felt this way about a guy, so I never had to have this conversation because I didn’t care what I was to any of them… damn that sounds bad. But… oh fuck, I’m ruining it,” she buried her face in his shoulder in apparent shame.

Sandor still couldn’t understand, or perhaps couldn’t believe, what she was saying. He kept replaying her words but, despite her stops and starts, there was only one meaning to interpret.

“So you’re saying you want assurances that this isn’t just a… a random fling or a one-night stand?”

She nodded her head meekly without meeting his eyes.

Sandor snorted incredulously while entertaining the possibility that he was in some real life Twilight Zone in which he wasn’t a scarred freak that people turned away from because he either scared them, disgusted them, or made them feel compassion they didn’t know how to express.

“Sansa, if you think one night with you would be enough for me, then you’re crazy. I still don’t know what the fuck you see in me, but as long as your feelings for me are there, and they’re _real,_ I’m sticking around. I’ll be the stray you feed once and then the damned thing paws at your window every night.”

Sansa giggled, “ _Every_ night?”

“Aye. You’ll regret ever feeding me.”

“Mmm… but I’ll get something in return, won’t I? A companion, someone to rub against my legs, purr in my ear, curl up on my lap…”

Sandor laughed, “I was thinking more like a stray _dog_ …”

“Oh, right. Sorry... Then I’ll have an even _better_ companion. One that stays by my side, protects me, lets me rub his belly, licks my hand.”

Sandor nuzzled into her neck as he pulled her by the lower back to smash her heat against his still-hard cock, “This sick pup is gonna lick more than your hand; and you’d best rub more than his belly.”

Sansa giggled again, and Sandor couldn’t tell if it felt like he was dying, or if it felt like he was finally living.

…

If she knew Sandor wouldn’t wake and feel self-conscious, Sansa would capture this moment in a photograph. Her sexy hunk of man was asleep in her bed. It was barely dawn but bright enough for the colors of her sheets and quilt to be apparent. Her bright pink sheets and tropical-colored bedspread contrasted the man snoring beneath them so starkly that it was comical. The only way it could be any funnier is if he wore her fluffy yellow bathrobe. It would barely hide his balls, and the sleeves would only come down to his elbows; that assuming his broad shoulders could even squeeze into the thing.

She took the time to admire him. He was so manly it seemed like he had been genetically engineered in a lab. A group of scientists challenged each other over who could make the best specimen of _human comma male_. Perhaps they were going to send him to another planet as a sample to show the aliens. The little green men would be like “Damn, they have a whole planet of this dude? We better not fuck with earth!” while the little green women would be like “Damn, they have a whole planet of this dude? When’s the next earth-bound shuttle leave?”

Oh God, if Sandor could hear her thoughts. He clearly didn’t share her appraisal of his appearance: head to toe perfection.

And yet, not for the first time in their relatively young courtship, she realized that what she liked best about him wasn’t his appearance. He was so funny! He made her laugh constantly but always in sly, subtle ways that she wasn’t sure were even intended to be humorous. He was also honest and didn’t try to gain some upper hand by not telling her how he felt about her. Other guys liked to play it cool: _“I can take you or leave you, babe, so if you want me to stick around you better give me something worth sticking around for.”_

Sandor wasn’t looking for handouts. He sincerely wanted to make Sansa happy. He smiled so proudly whenever she laughed, like he had just cured cancer or something.

And he was probably smart enough to, even though he made it sound like all he knew about was private security. In actuality, he’d pepper little factoids into their conversations, not in a know-it-all way, but in a _“since you’re talking about whales anyway, you might be interested to know that…”_ She suspected he educated himself through books and television programs, maybe Internet videos. She didn’t know much about his past, but it was obvious he hadn’t graduated from some prestigious university. He may not have even gone to college at all.

Sexy, funny, smart, but not arrogant… honest, affectionate, but not annoyingly sweet.

Was it possible… had she found her “the one?”

If last night was any indication, she had…

After she interrupted what was about to be him going down on her, they cleared the air, establishing that this – whatever was going on between them – was more than just physical attraction and sex.

They hugged and kissed then, with possibly even more vigor and lust. Her legs and arms wrapped around him and she asked him to take her to the bedroom. If this was something special, they weren’t going to do it on her narrow sofa that looked like doll furniture in his presence.

Standing inside her bedroom door, she’d helped him strip down to his boxers, trying not to jump up and down and shriek like a twelve-year-old girl at a boy band concert. She wanted to play it cool, but it was impossible not to tell him that he was a fucking masterpiece, and she could do no better if she had three hundred pounds of clay and a lifetime to sculpt. As usual he laughed off the compliment and instead told her that she was the reason men wrote songs… _She’s got legs… She’s a brick house… She’s my cherry pie._ It seemed like he might go on forever, so she stopped him with a kiss.

That’s when things got so euphoric it was like being in a dream. He led her to the bed and went down on her – getting her off twice all while whispering things that made it sound like she was doing _him_ a favor. Like he could get off just from tasting her! Suffice to say, his musings got her off as much as his tongue and fingers did.

And he didn’t even ask her to return the favor! He just stroked her waist and hips while she came down, and then _boom_ brought her right back up again with his cock. His long, strong, hard-as-rock but _not_ freakishly-big-porn-star cock. _Seriously, what good does a footlong do me when only half of it fits in?_

Okay, so she was pretty sure some of Sandor didn’t fit in either, but his surplus wasn’t excessive. Then again, she could barely get a good look because it was hard to lift her head up to gaze between their bodies when it was busy lolling around wildly on the pillow like she needed an exorcism, not an orgasm.

After she came a third time, she expected him to have at her fast and hard. She’d have been fine with that, and in no position to complain, anyway, but her climax around his body seemed to do something to him. He lowered himself to his forearms. His pace slowed though his thrusts were even deeper. He kissed her neck and shoulder and nuzzled into her hair like she’d only seen guys do in movies. She clutched at his back, feeling the muscles stretch and flex under her fingertips. She wanted to cry tears of some foreign emotion that was equal parts joy and longing, elation and sadness. It was only when he began whispering her name over and over into her hair that she realized what it was that made _this_ encounter feel so different…

_He's making love to me._

_Love… that’s the weird emotion. I fucking love him._

…Now she sat on her bed, watching him sleep, wondering what the hell to do with this knowledge.

It was _way_ too soon to say the L-word, that much she knew.

_Unless he feels it, too._

No, she couldn’t take that risk. She would make it abundantly clear that she liked him and wanted to continue seeing him, but she wouldn’t say anything that might scare him off.

And perhaps she’d call her mom and ask what it felt like when she fell in love with Dad, and if it was possible for people to fall in love after only two weeks. Then she’d beg her mom _not_ to fly to the city and interrogate her new boyfriend.

_Boyfriend?_

She sighed; they might have to talk about that too. Sansa would make sure he knew she was good with whatever, but just wanted to be clear about what they were so both of them were comfortable with the pace. _Yeah, this is how adults do things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since so many of you haven't seen Shallow Hal (and you're reading my fic anyway - how awesome!!!) I thought I'd provide a little sample...  
> Hal is the main character (equivalent to my Sansa). Tony is the person who hypnotizes Hal to see inner beauty on the outside (my Melisandre). Tony is a self-help guru and gets stuck in an elevator with Hal. This is the convo that ensues when Tony asks Hal about his love life:
> 
> Hal: See, the problem is I'm kinda picky
> 
> Tony Robbins: What do you mean, picky?
> 
> Hal: Well, for instance, I like 'em real young. Like, did you ever see Paulina in her first "Sports Illustrated" layout?
> 
> Tony Robbins: You're looking for a young Paulina type?
> 
> Hal: Well, that face, but with better headlights. You know how hers have kind of dimmed lately? Heidi Klums beams would do. And her teeth. Or, ooh, that Britney Spears girl. She's got great knockers. But she's a tad muscular. Uh, actually, you know what? Her ass would do, too, if she had a better grille. Like, uh, Michelle Pfeiffer back when she did "Grease 2". But she'd have to be a little smilier than Michelle. Kinda like Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, before she got Stamosed. But not as skinny. Someone a little meatier, like Heidi. But without the accent. You know those accents: yah-yah-yah-yah. They really get old fast. You know what I mean. Someone like that.
> 
> Tony Robbins: Hal, don't you think you're being a bit shallow here in the way you look at women?
> 
> Hal: Well, no! You know, I'd like her to be into culture and shit, too.
> 
> Tony Robbins: Ok Hal, hypothetical situation; Which do you prefer, a girlfriend missing one breast or half a brain?
> 
> Hal: Hmmm, toughie. How's the remaining breast? Is it big?  
> \----
> 
> Okay... so my Sansa isn't as shallow as Hal, since she's always been looking for the full package, only she's never given a guy the chance unless he's super hot, so she's limiting her prospect pool significantly. 
> 
> And yes, I tried to find this Shallow Hal scene in video, but I couldn't find the entire scene only small parts of it.


	8. As serious as a heart attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish chapter but things will be picking up soon...

**Sansa**

Sansa and Arya volunteered to get the next round of drinks as a clever ruse to be able to talk at the bar, away from their group of friends.

It had been two weeks since Sansa and Sandor slept together, and their relationship was progressing so quickly it was head-spinning, but in a wonderful way. Sandor was everything she ever wanted, and, without bias, she was sure he felt the same about her.

It was a Friday night, and Sansa and Sandor joined Bronn and Jaime at the bar again, though she promised not to get trashed this time. When Arya called to see what Sansa was up to and found out she was at the bar with her new beau, she invited herself. That also meant Gendry was coming with his friend Podrick. Not wanting it to be a total sausage fest, Sansa invited Jeyne.

Sansa hadn’t spoken to Marge since the phone call after Myrcella’s wedding. She wanted to invite her out tonight but didn’t want to risk Joffrey tagging along.

_Then again, with Sandor, Jaime, and Bronn here… plus Gendry and Arya…_

Sansa shot Marge a diplomatic text: **I know we have stuff to work through, but I just wanted to let you know Arya, Jeyne and I are at Shooter’s. Gendry and Pod are here and some guys from work. If you want to hang it would be nice to see you.**

Sansa had put away her phone and leaned against Sandor’s solid shoulder. She wouldn’t torture herself waiting for Marge’s reply, nor would she risk getting upset if Marge chose to respond in a disagreeable fashion.

Now she and Arya stood at the bar waiting for their drink order and Sansa was biting her lip. She knew Sandor would earn Arya’s approval easier than any other guy she’d dated, but she was still anxious to hear her sister’s appraisal.

When Arya spoke, her words were not what Sansa expected…

“Ok, if this is still about us giving you shit about being shallow, you can stop now.”

“What?”

“Umm… this guy you’re dating all the sudden… Seriously, San, we were just messing with you. I want my shallow sister back.”

“What are you talking about?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “He is obviously not your type…”

“Not my _type?!_ Wow… he is literally my textbook definition of the perfect boyfriend. He’s funny, smart, reserved, sweet, tall, and sexy as fuck.”

Arya cringed, “I get the height. And fine, he’s actually kind of funny. But _sweet?_ And _sexy?”_

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Yes, he’s sweet to me, believe it or not. And perhaps not _boy sexy_ but _man sexy_.”

Arya let out a put-upon huff, “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

She rolled her eyes, “Fine. He isn’t up to your standards. You know it and I know it. I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. In fact, he’s probably a good guy, which makes what you’re doing even worse.”

“What I’m doing? What are you talking about?”

“He is obviously smitten with you, even if he tries to play it cool. You’re using him to prove a point to us, or to yourself… and yeah, _maybe_ you like spending time with him. But it may mean more to him than it does to you, and what will happen when you get tired of him and want to go back to dating the Jaime Lannisters of the world?”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, “You know what? It is way too soon in our relationship for me to be saying this, but since you seem to be convinced that I’m taking advantage of him in some way, and because you’re my sister, I’m going to tell you how I feel. I feel like Sandor could be… the one.”

Arya’s brow furrowed, “Like, _the_ one?”

“Yes, _the_ one. Arya, I’ve never felt this way before with any man. Not Jaime, not Harry, not Garlan or any other guy I dated, seriously or casually. I’m out of my depth here. You’re worried about him? I’m worried about _me_! I’m worried he’s going to realize he can do better and then I’ll be the one who’s crushed!”

Arya shook her head, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As serious as a heart attack.”

Arya scrunched her face in mock sappiness, “Wow… my big sister is all grown up!”

Sansa chuckled, “Very funny.”

Arya took a breath that Sansa knew meant she was about to say something earnest, “Look… if you’re serious about him, and this isn’t just some ploy, then I’m happy for you. He’s kind of grouchy, and you know how I like to be the most sarcastic person at any gathering, which he’s kind of ruining, but if he makes you happy, then I’m happy.”

Sansa beamed at her sister as the drinks were finally placed in front of them.

**Sandor**

Sandor was out of his element. He could do drinks at a bar with the guys - a small group of guys. But now he was pretty sure this was some type of setup. He felt like Sansa considered this their debut as a couple – an opportunity for her sister and best friend to meet him and take his measure.

Needless to say, that was a terrifying prospect. On the outside he was his usual cool-headed, sharp tongued self. But on the inside his heart was racing a mile a minute. He was certain Arya or Jeyne – maybe both – would point out all his flaws to the otherwise-oblivious Sansa, and she’d wake up from her weird trance of thinking he was boyfriend material. 

He nervously watched Arya and Sansa chatting at the bar and was pretty certain he was the topic of conversation. He could imagine the dialogue…

_Sansa, you can do so much better than that scarred, hairy freak._

_His scars don’t bother me, they show he’s a fighter._

_Whatever, but do you really want to look at them for the rest of your life? You want wedding photos with_ that guy? _You want to spend the rest of your life walking beside someone who gets gaped at by strangers?_

_You raise excellent points, Arya. Let’s go dump his ugly ass!_

He felt his skin prickling with nervous sweat as the sisters approached with pitchers of beer for the guys and cocktails for Jeyne and Sansa. He was tempted to make up an excuse to leave. Claim an early appointment or a headache or… well that was pretty much all he could think of.

When Sansa sat down, she smiled at him and slipped her hand into his before tuning back into the conversation. Jaime was telling Pod and Gendry some story the others already knew.

Minutes passed and Sansa didn’t burst Sandor’s bubble. She just held his hand, listened to Jaime, and occasionally giggled. Sandor saw and heard nothing but her. It was the movie cliché where the main character has tunnel vision for some hottie walking across the room in a tight dress, tossing her hair over her shoulder in slow motion. Only Sansa wasn’t just some hottie. She was indeed incredibly hot, but she was also smart and funny and kind. It was clear that everyone – her coworkers and friends – respected her and enjoyed being in her company. She was like the sun – everyone wanted to stand under the warmth of her rays. Yet, for some odd reason, she chose to give most of her warmth and light to Sandor.

Over the past few weeks he gravitated between thinking he won the lottery and worrying about when the inevitable rejection would come. On his better days he could admit he had some redeeming qualities – a good body even if his face was fucked up. A dry, dark sense of humor which Sansa apparently liked. He wasn’t overly educated but he wasn’t a dummy either. And if a woman wanted to feel safe and protected by her man, he could offer that in spades.

On his worse days he snapped at everyone, including Sansa, because he didn’t want to acknowledge even to himself that he was anything other than an angry guard dog. Life was simple as a loner. It was easy to be unattached, to focus on work and not much else.

But a funny thing happened when he acted like a jerk, grumbling about some minor inconvenience as if he were a grumpy old man. Sansa would give him a sympathetic look, hug him, and say something annoyingly cute like, _“Is someone a grouchy bear today?”_ It would make him realize he was acting like a petulant child, so he would backtrack and downplay his annoyance with whatever or whomever had bothered him. A few more minutes later, everything was forgotten except for Sansa’s sweet lips on his cheek or her little hands pressed to his chest.

And that was perhaps the most perplexing part of all. He was 6’7” and built like a Mack truck. His face had frightened more than a handful of women (not to mention toddlers) in his day. Yet she wasn’t intimidated by him at all. He knew what he looked like when he was angry or even peeved, and it wasn’t pretty, yet she just shrugged it off.

In meeting Arya, he wondered if all Starks had this reckless bravery, like when Sansa confronted the guys on the street who had called Sandor a freak. Yet she spoke about herself like she was meek. Arya teased her for the same, as she was doing now – recounting a story from middle school (clearly in attempt to embarrass Sansa, which seemed to be working) …

“This bitch was bullying Sansa _all_ year. I offered to kick her ass and Sansa just said ‘violence is not the answer’… then confronted the chick with her twenty-point speech about why they should make nice…”

“Violence _isn’t_ the answer!” Sansa tried, weakly, to defend herself.

“Yeah, well neither was your _address_ _to the_ _United Kingdoms…_ she dumped chocolate milk down your shirt, remember?”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “Arya – don’t!”

Arya’s smile turned evil, “Or what?”

“Just don’t… _please_!”

“Oh come on, they’ll think it’s funny.”

“No they won’t, Arya!”

“What’s she talking about?” Sandor inquired, sensing Sansa was genuinely concerned about what Arya would say.

Sansa opened her mouth to speak but it was Arya’s voice that met his ears, “About how all the boys in school called Sansa _chocolate tits_ after that.”

“You bitch!” Sansa didn’t seem to think before flinging a buffalo wing across the table, landing a direct shot on Arya’s forehead and leaving behind a reddish-orange smudge.

Gendry clamped his arms around Arya, who looked ready to launch out of her seat. His eyes went wide, and he glared at Sansa, “Are you nuts?! You don’t start a food fight with Arya Stark; that’s like sticking your hand in a hornet’s nest!”

At Gendry’s intensity Sandor considered moving out of the line of fire, but the sound of hyenas cackling broke through the tension. Everyone turned to face Jaime and Bronn who were laughing so hard it looked painful. Eventually Jaime composed himself enough to speak, _“Chocolate tits?”_

Sansa huffed and crossed her arms, “For the record…” it seemed halfway through her response she realized how ridiculous the entire conversation was as she burst out a snort of laughter, “…I was a lot more popular after that!”

Everyone laughed. Even Arya seemed to have abandoned her thirst for revenge.

When Sandor and Sansa walked back to his apartment later that night, he was wondering how to broach the subject of wanting to lick chocolate syrup off Sansa’s chest when she stilled beside him.

“Everything okay?” he asked as he turned to look at her.

_Here it is… the other shoe is about to drop._

“Yeah, everything’s great. I just wanted to make sure you know that if we’re ever moving too fast for you, or if you just aren’t in the mood for company, it’s okay to tell me. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I know I’m at risk of doing just that since I want to pretty much be near you every second of every day.”

Sandor shook his head, something he did in incredulity about a hundred times a day now, “Sansa… every second you’re willing to spend with me is a second I want to spend with you. You’re fucking unreal. In fact I’m pretty certain this is a joke of the Gods. Or a really long dream.”

Sansa pinched his arm.

“Ouch… what was that for?”

“To make sure you’re not dreaming.”

Sandor chuckled, “Well it could still be some cruel joke.”

“Then it’s cruel for both of us,” she whispered as she pressed her chest to his, standing on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips.


	9. I sound like a lovesick fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shortish chapter but hopefully very fulfilling.

**Sansa**

It had been over a month since her first “date” with Sandor at the diner and Sansa found herself with feelings she’d never experienced before. Like the desire to have him meet her parents and, even more drastically, that she could see a true future with him. A forever future. Marriage, house, kids... It was way too early to be having those thoughts and yet they didn’t seem unreasonable. Their bond deepened every time they saw each other, spoke to each other, kissed each other.

Sandor was getting more comfortable in receiving her affection and giving her his. She still was a little perplexed that her friends seemed to question their relationship. Was it only because it was progressing so quickly? Yet it wasn’t the speed of their intimacy that was being questioned, it was their relationship in general. After meeting Sandor at the bar for the first time, Jeyne expressed similar concerns as Arya had – that Sandor wasn’t Sansa’s “type”.

Sansa had racked her brain to rationalize their completely out-of-line opinions. The best she could figure, they thought Sandor was like her past boyfriends and hookups: perfect on the outside but lacking substance on the inside. Sandor wasn’t overly talkative, so perhaps they thought he wasn’t on Sansa’s intellectual level. Being all his professional experience was in the bodyguard industry, perhaps they thought he was just big, dumb muscle. It bothered Sansa that they didn’t notice how clever he was. It bothered her that she had no one to share her absolute glee with. She wanted to shout her feelings from the rooftops, but it seemed no one would believe her.

Oddly enough, Bronn was the closest thing she had to a friend she could gush to. He’d pop into her office during his downtime at work to say _hello_ and would always ask how things were going with the ‘big guy’. She’d smile and answer honestly, and Bronn would smile back, saying he was glad that Sandor met her, but that if he ever fucked up, Bronn was willing to fill the position. When Sansa joked that those were tough shoes – and _pants_ – to fill, Bronn laughed.

Sansa mostly had tunnel vision for Sandor when they were together, but she’d sometimes notice the looks they got from strangers, seemingly trying to make sense of them as a couple. Sansa had never been self-conscious. Without trying she was an 8, even a solid 7 on her worse days. With makeup and a nice dress she thought she was a 9. But Sandor blew the entire scale out of the water. New numbers were added just to accommodate him, she mused. He had to be at least a 14, and Sansa defined this new number as ‘so hot you get wet just from looking at him’. It was wholly unfair that he looked hot in the well-fitted suits he wore to the office _and_ in the shorts and t-shirts he wore to work out. When Sansa exercised, her porcelain skin turned into salami skin – random blotches of red and white. For the first time since high school she was tempted change her look. She considered dying her hair. Perhaps coppery red was cute but not sexy.

As she was walking home from work that day her phone buzzed. Marge was calling. The friends had made up a few days ago, though it felt more like they were conveniently sweeping the Joffrey incident under the rug. Regardless, Sansa was glad to have her friend back, and compromised with herself by promising to stick to her scruples in regards Joffrey, but to otherwise enjoy her time with Margaery.

“Hey Marge, what’s up?” Sansa answered.

_“Nothing, just got off work.”_

“Me, too. I’m actually glad you called. Do you think I could pull off being blond?”

_“Umm… maybe that **really** light, cool blond. I think anything else will make you look washed out.”_

Sansa smiled; she could always count on Marge for honesty where Jeyne would say something like _“You can pull off anything!”_

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that… What about going darker, then? A deep auburn?”

_“Yeah, that could work. Not black, but a medium-dark brown with hints of red, it would give you that Scarlet O’Hara look… make your skin look like fresh cream!”_

“Yeah! Oh my God, I think I might do it. I just want to run it by Sandor.”

Marge snorted, _“You need his permission to dye your hair?”_

“No, but if he prefers my red hair than I’ll keep it. I want to look good for him.”

Marge laughed fully this time, _“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”_

“What do you mean?”

_“San, you could wear a flour sack and dye your hair Crayola Orange; he’d still think you’re a catch.”_

“I dunno; I’ve been feeling kind of plain, lately.”

_“Really? I think you always look great… oh hold on, that’s Loras.”_

Marge clicked over while Sansa continued walking with the phone to her ear, wondering if her makeup and wardrobe needed some updating as well.

_“Hey, I’m back… wanna do a girls’ night with Loras? He’d be great to consult about your hair color, he’s got a real instinct for what goes well with different skin tones and eye colors and all that.”_

“Well, I was going to go to Sandor’s…”

_“Wow, it sounds like you’ve been hanging out with him every weekend. Is it really that serious?”_

Sansa smiled, “I know it’s soon, but I just can’t stand to be apart from him. Besides, he brings out this jealous side of me I never knew was there… the idea of him going out with his friends without me, I just picture women throwing themselves at him. Does that make me a possessive nutjob?”

The phone was silent for long seconds.

“Marge, you still there?”

_“Yeah. Um… was just thinking about your question…”_

“Oh Gods, I am a nutjob, aren’t I? Alright, I’ll call him and see if he wants a break from me tonight.”

_“Okay… well, just call me and let me know.”_

…

“And oh my Gods, he is like a _machine_ in bed!” Sansa gushed unabashedly after her third glass of wine.

“Well that explains a lot,” Marge grinned.

“I mean, I never thought it was possible, but there _is_ such a thing as a guy lasting too long. I think I need to start doing yoga or something that strengthens my core. Sometimes my muscles are ready to give out and he’s still going to town!”

Loras was cracking up, “Well sounds like you hit the jackpot in the sex department.”

Sansa sighed happily, “I hit the jackpot in _every_ department.”

Loras and Margaery subtly exchanged a glance. Sansa couldn’t pretend not to notice it, “Look, I’m not saying he’s perfect, but he’s perfect for _me_ , alright?”

Marge smiled, “Of course darling. I’m so happy for you!”

“Yeah,” Loras nodded, “To hear Margie talk, I thought you would be a lifetime bachelorette.”

“I know,” Sansa shrugged, “I guess I was just waiting for the right one.”

“Wow… already decided he’s Mr. Right?” Marge asked around a sip of Chardonnay.

Sansa put her face in her hands to hide her blush, “I sound like a lovesick fool, don’t I?”

Loras held his hands up, “We’re not judging. I knew Renly was the one the first time I laid eyes on him. Dark hair, blue eyes, built like a pitbull…”

Sansa quirked a brow at Marge, “And you think _I’m_ shallow?”

Marge’s brows raised, “Oh don’t worry, no one thinks that anymore. We’ve officially retired that title for you.”

Sansa groaned, “Why do I feel like you all think he isn’t good enough for me? So what if he didn’t go to some fancy college? So what if he’s always had to work for a living, not born wealthy like us… So what if he’s reserved and a bit cynical? He is so sweet to me, he makes me laugh all the time, and he’s really smart… his brain is like a sponge!”

“Sooo…” Marge started, then seemed to search for words, “ _Being_ with him… you’re… okay with it?”

Sansa laughed, “Marge, what have I been saying?! I’m more than okay with it. I’m thrilled beyond belief!”

Marge smiled, “Well, then that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Sansa smiled back, “Yep, all that matters.”

…

Another month of romantic bliss came and went, and Sansa was just dying to find the right moment to say the three little words that had been her truth since her first night with Sandor. She still debated whether it was too soon – not for her to say it, but for him to hear it. He grew more confident in her presence every day, but she could tell he still wasn’t totally comfortable with himself. He never wanted to take a selfie with her, which irked her to no end – she wanted to post a photo of them together all over her social media accounts. Sandor didn’t have social media, which kind of suited his personality, so she couldn’t even be his Facebook friend or let everyone see that she was “in a relationship” with Sandor Clegane. She wanted to brag on a digital scale, but he made it impossible.

He was also still a bit shy when they were in public together. Though she knew surprisingly little about his past, she gathered he was something of a homebody, perhaps even a recluse; only going out with a small group of his close friends – two of whom he was now separated from by hundreds of miles – to familiar, low-key bars rather than flashy clubs.

Their dates mainly consisted of hanging out at one of their apartments or going to a casual restaurant or bar. He’d yet to take her to a fancy place with a dress code, and she got the strong impression those places weren’t his scene. She could respect that. Even though she was raised wealthy and knew all her table manners, stuffy places like that didn’t offer the fun atmosphere and greasy food she preferred.

They’d also go for walks in the park or along the board walk, or catch a movie, but she could tell Sandor was at the limit of the social experiences he was comfortable with. She wouldn’t pressure him for more, though. Truthfully, she was content to cook and eat together at his place, wearing sweatpants and comfy t-shirts and binge-watching the TV shows they both liked.

If there was one thing she could complain about, it was that Sandor never talked about or seemed to even think about their future. Maybe he wanted to take things slow, but she wanted to at least know that he wondered what it would be like to live together or get married someday – that it was a possibility. Of course, _“Ever think about getting married?”_ was a guaranteed way to send a boyfriend running for the hills, especially since they’d only been dating for a couple months, but she desperately needed reassurance that he was serious about being with her.

That night, she decided on what she hoped would be a subtle approach. “Hey…” she spoke casually from where she leaned against his chest on his oversized leather sofa.

“Hmm?”

“I really like being here with you.”

“Mmm,” she felt him smile against her hair, “I like having you here.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Just want to make sure I’m not smothering you or anything.”

“Sansa, you might be the one person in this world I wouldn’t mind being smothered by – literally or figuratively.”

She giggled, knowing the “literal” part was in reference to how she sat on his face the prior night. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure. It just feels so right for me… I mean being here with you. I feel like I’ve been here more than at my own place these past few weeks,” she laughed, trying to play it off as a half-joke.

“Well, I think if you do the math, you _have_ been.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No… Sansa why are you asking this?”

With a huff she abandoned her “subtle” strategy, seeing it was going nowhere, “Look – I’m not saying this will happen _soon_ , but sitting here with you I realized I feel like I’m home. And it made me wonder if we ever – _in the_ _future_ – might move in together.”

She felt him stiffen beside her and knew she’d taken it too far. He pulled back the arm that had been around her shoulders and leaned forward, face in hands and elbows on knees.

“Sandor – I was NOT asking to move in with you… just that… _someday_ it might—”

“I get it, Sansa,” he sighed loudly, “the truth is I’ve had the same thought, but I think it’s better to take things slow.”

She tried to decipher his meaning, and more importantly the sentiment behind it, “So your heart wants to take things to the next level, but your brain says, ‘pump the brakes’?”

He snorted a laugh, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Soo… just out of curiosity… what else does your heart think?”

Sandor leaned back against the sofa as if bracing himself, “Things I’m afraid to say out loud.”

_He does feel the same!_

“I get that… and not that you asked, but my heart says a lot, too.”

“Oh?” he asked, clearly trying to downplay his curiosity.

“Yep… it says you’re awesome, and that I’m so lucky to have met you… and that you might just be the perfect man… for me,” she felt her cheeks heat but forced herself not to avert her eyes.

He turned to look at her, a hesitant smile playing at his lips, “Ditto.”

She smiled back, “It also thinks that… or _hopes_ that… we’ll be together for a long time.”

He nodded slowly without lifting his head from the back of the sofa, “Ditto.”

“And…” Sansa bit her lip. _Now or never…_ “And it thinks that it maybe… definitely… loves you.”

His smile dropped away into one of pure awe. He didn’t bother trying to hide his surprise.

Excruciating seconds passed before his smile returned, “Ditto.”

She laughed out a burst of nervous energy, “That was a total cop out.”

He turned his body to face her more fully, “Let no one say I’m a coward… Sansa, my heart maybe definitely loves you, too.”

Sansa laughed again, “Should we try that again?”

Sandor grinned and nodded.

“Sandor, I love you.”

“Sansa, I love you too.”


	10. I think I scared your mom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody meets somebody's parents.

**Sansa**

Sansa was on cloud nine every single day. She felt like skipping down the aisles of the grocery store. She smiled at strangers on the subway; she tipped baristas and waitresses more generously; she handed out compliments like candy on Halloween.

As summer heat gave way to autumn drizzles, she felt like Gene Kelly in _Singin’ in the Rain._ She was a woman in love with a man who loved her back and nothing could dampen her spirits. She loved her job, loved her friends, loved her man, and loved her life.

Three months into their courtship it was time for Sandor to meet her parents, something he agreed to do with reluctant submission.

It was a five-hour drive to her parents’ house, so they decided to make a long weekend out of it. They’d leave Friday morning and take their time, enjoying the fall colors as they drove through the mountains.

She could tell Sandor was nervous the entire way there, peppering her with questions about her parents’ likes and dislikes so he would know what to talk about. Sansa obliged him but did plenty of giggling, too.

“It’s not funny,” he growled from the driver’s seat, “I’m not good with parents.”

“Really? How many girls’ parents have you met?”

He huffed, “One.”

Sansa laughed, “That’s not exactly enough to identify a trend…”

“Aye, well her dad looked like he was going to reach for a shotgun and her mom looked like she was going to have a heart attack.”

Sansa chuckled, “I’m sure you’re exaggerating. My parents are going to love you, if for no other reason than that I love you, and you’re so good to me.”

He shook his head, “I still think you might be crazy.”

“Crazy in love!” she beamed.

“I still don’t get it, Sansa. I mean… how are you okay with… all this?” he circled his hand around his head.

She rolled her eyes, “Sandor, you are the most wonderful man I’ve ever met, inside and out. So will you stop questioning me already?”

He shook his head again, but she could tell he had surrendered when he muttered, “I just hope your parents are as nutty as you are.”

…

When they walked through the front door of Winterfell Manor, both her parents appeared from the sitting room to greet them. Sansa ran to hug her mom but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her mother was staring at Sandor like he had three heads. Her mom quickly shook away her odd reaction and smiled at Sansa, pulling her eldest daughter in for a hug.

After hugging her dad, marveling at how much smaller he felt now that she’d grown accustomed to Sandor’s frame, she moved to stand next to her Sandor, wrapping both her arms around one of his.

“Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Sandor.”

Sandor shook both their hands. Catelyn affixed a wide smile, “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Sandor. Sansa has told us such wonderful things about you.”

Sandor smiled timidly, “Don’t know how much you can believe, but I thank you for saying so, Mrs. Stark.”

“Please, call us Ned and Catelyn.”

“If you insist.”

Her mom clapped her hands in front of her, “We insist!”

Sansa led Sandor upstairs so they could put down their bags in her childhood bedroom. Sandor sat heavily on the edge of her bed and let out a loud sigh.

“See, wasn’t so bad?”

“Aye, could have been worse, but I think I scared your mom.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Well you do have an imposing figure. Most of my past boyfriends that they’ve met have been…” Sansa trailed off, searching for the right adjective.

“Good looking?”

She swatted his arm, “I was going to say _pretty._ ”

He snorted, “And what’s the opposite of pretty?”

She knew he was trying to get her to say ‘ugly’, but she wouldn’t take the bait. His self-deprecation was at times adorable and other times maddening. Instead she sat beside him, wrapping her arms around his massive shoulders, “Ruggedly handsome, and big and strong enough to beat up all the men who came before you. At the same time.” She concluded her statement with a kiss on his nose.

Sandor shook his head, “Right, well I suppose we should go back down… don’t want them to think you’re hiding me away up here.”

“Well, as good as you’d look naked in my bright pink bed, I think I can contain my urges until tonight.”

Sandor’s eyes widened, “No! We aren’t having sex in your parents’ house!”

Sansa laughed, “Relax, their master suite is in the opposite wing.”

“Still…”

“Alright, we’ll worry about that later. Come on!” she hopped up, eager to visit with her parents so Sandor would get to know them and feel more at ease.

**Sandor**

The early dinner started out somewhat awkwardly. Sandor was trying to be on his best behavior, sitting up straight and minding his manners. But soon enough he realized that, while the Starks were quite wealthy, they were not uptight. Ned Stark was an outdoorsman who preferred hunting and fishing over golf or tennis. He preferred strong ale and straight bourbon over wine and martinis. He was a “meat and potatoes” guy – as Catelyn lovingly teased as she dished out pot roast. Sandor was fairly certain they must employ servants, but Sansa and Catelyn had set the table and brought out all the food, with everyone digging in family style.

Though an avid hunter, Ned clearly had an appreciation for nature as, decades ago, he had a generous portion of Winterfell’s lands set up as a wildlife sanctuary. It was home to a rare breed of wolves that were endangered.

Sandor found it surprisingly easy to converse with the man. He told Ned how his grandfather had been an accomplished hunter who bred, trained, and sold his own hunting hounds that were second-to-none. Ned picked Sandor’s brain, since he himself didn’t use dogs to hunt but enjoyed accompanying his friends who did.

Luckily, the hounds were one of the few things about his family history that Sandor knew about in some detail. The only other tidbit he could share, hoping for more common ground with the Starks, was that his grandmother was from the North.

Unfortunately, that led to Sansa’s mother asking an only logical question, “What about your parents, Sandor? Do they live up north?”

“Mom!” Sansa hissed before passing an apologetic look to Sandor.

“It’s alright,” he squeezed her hand, “Actually both of my parents are passed on. My mom when I was very young and my father when I was fourteen.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I do think Sansa mentioned that to me. I should have—”

“It’s alright, Mrs— _Catelyn_. Truly.”

She offered him a motherly smile, “Well, I hear you’re good friends with Jaime.”

“Aye. Known him since I was a young man,” Sandor nodded. Wanting to make it clear he wasn’t jealous of Sansa’s ex, he added, “Jaime’s a good man.”

Ned snorted, “Indeed he is. The only good one of that bunch.”

Catelyn scolded but Sandor chuckled, “I take it you’ve met some of the Lannister clan?”

Ned arched an eyebrow, “I have, only once. Once was enough,” he took a long sip of bourbon to emphasize his point.

Sandor chuckled, “They’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I worked for Tywin for many years. He’s a hard man, but fair. Always looks like he’s at a funeral, though.”

Ned almost spit out his drink at that description, and Sandor felt a swell of pride at making the man laugh. Perhaps this weekend wouldn’t be so bad, after all…

**Sansa**

“So, waddaya think?” Sansa asked hopefully while she and her mom cleared the table. Her dad had dragged Sandor out to the back deck for a scotch and a cigar – Ned Stark’s Saturday evening ritual.

Her mom smiled but Sansa could tell it was forced, “He seems very nice, sweetheart.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “That’s it?”

“He’s polite and seems to have a good sense of humor.”

“And?”

Her mother paused and let out a sigh.

_Here it comes. A trademark Catelyn Stark criticism._

“He seems to have had a… hard life, Sansa.”

Sansa nodded, “I know. I mean, I _don’t_ know. I don’t know his entire story, but yeah, I’d agree with that appraisal.”

Her mom nodded, “I’m not judging him for that, mind you, but I just hope you know that people with… _traumatic_ pasts… it can be difficult for them to maintain healthy relationships.”

“Mom… I’ve been with him for three months now. He is a complete gentleman, even if he doesn’t come across as _suave_ as men like Jaime Lannister. He’s kind to me, honest with me, and he makes me laugh all the time.”

Her mom’s smile was more genuine now as she pat Sansa’s arms, “That’s wonderful. Just… take things slow. If he has skeletons in his closet, better to find out about them before you take any major steps.”

“I don’t think he has skeletons, Mom. Jaime would have told me.”

“So what _do_ you know about his past?”

Sansa shook her head, “Mom, I know it’s your right to worry, but his past doesn’t define him. He is good to me. He works hard. He is kind. I don’t want to judge him by his past because obviously that past made him who he is today.”

Catelyn Stark nodded with conviction, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Perhaps I am being judgmental. If he looked different, I might not even have these concerns. That isn’t fair to him.”

Sansa smiled, “I get it Mom. I’m your daughter. You see this big guy, really muscular. He could probably do more damage with his pinky finger than some guys can do with their entire body. But he has always been gentle with me. Moreover, his profession requires a lot of self-control. Knowing when to act and when not to… if he was one to lose his temper, he wouldn’t have made it long in this industry.”

“So you really like him?”

“No, Mom, I love him,” Sansa smiled, unable to help herself.

“Oh. Oh my,” Catelyn’s eyebrows lifted up to her hairline.

“Yes. I’ve never felt this way before, Mom. That’s why I wanted you to meet him.”

“Sansa… you’re not… you’re not considering marriage already, are you?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “No, but I could see that in our future.”

Catelyn sat down at one of the dining chairs, “Wow… I suppose… well, that’s great, honey. Just please take your time. If he’s the one, you’ll have the rest of your lives to be together. No need to rush things.”

Sansa couldn’t fight the groan, “We’re not rushing, Mom. Now _please_ , don’t worry about me. Worry about Rick and Arya.”

Catelyn chuckled, “Well I have plenty of practice in that!”

…

Laying in her childhood bed with her very large, very manly boyfriend was a bit strange, but Sansa very much enjoyed snuggling up to him.

“So how was your talk with my dad?”

“Actually… I think it went pretty well. I think he might like me.”

“I think so, too. My mom likes you too, by the way. She’s worried about us moving too fast and all the normal parental concerns, but she said you’re nice and funny and seem to be a good man.”

“Wow.”

“I told you there was nothing to worry about! It just makes me kind of sad that… well, that you don’t have family I can meet.”

Sandor sighed, “Don’t feel bad, Sansa. I’m a lone dog and it’s suited me just fine.”

Sansa felt mildly insulted, “Does that mean you still want to be a lone dog?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Don’t twist my words, woman. You know the fact that I’m here, smooshed into your full-size bed, meeting your parents, means I’m _not_ a lone dog anymore.”

“Good,” she nodded decisively.

“In fact, I even… well… never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing… just was thinking that… family is kind of nice.”

Sansa nodded, taking his comment at face value until she realized it may have a deeper meaning, “Sandor, do you mean… are you saying that you think of someday having your _own_ family?”

She heard him take a deep breath through the chest she rested her head against, “Maybe.”

She pursed her lips to keep from grinning, “Maybe?”

“Yes. _Maybe_. What’s wrong with maybe?”

“Nothing at all. It’s just, I maybe want that too. Someday.”

“Aye. Someday.”

She nodded, “Someday. Maybe.”

Long minutes passed and she wasn’t sure Sandor was still awake when she whispered his name.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t always… I mean… I didn’t always think I might maybe someday want my own family.”

It took him a few beats to respond, “Me neither. It’s only been the past couple months that I’ve been thinking about… maybe someday doing it.”

“Funny,” she smiled against his skin, “It’s been a couple months for me, too.”

“Well _that_ is a funny coincidence.”

“Mmhmm… purely coincidence.”

“Purely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so couple things I want to address...
> 
> A) Is it getting unbelievable that no one has directly asked Sansa about Sandor's scars? I hope not. I've had multiple characters mention his appearance - Jaime came right out and mentioned his face. Keep in mind that no one would have any reason to suspect Sansa cannot see Sandor's scars. Nor does Sansa have any reason to believe what she is seeing isn't Sandor's "true" appearance, cause that would just be craziness. Also, this is a modern AU so political correctness applies. If you met your friend's boyfriend and he had terrible scarring on his face would you come out and ask your friend "what happened to his face?" Perhaps... but more likely not because you'd be afraid of being rude. More likely you'd try to obliquely raise the subject and hope your friend took the bait. Also, this is fun fiction, so just go with it. :)
> 
> B) You'll notice there are minor time jumps - a few weeks between some chapters. So if it seems like it's moving too fast, it's really not. Also, they're soulmates, because that's just how I do.
> 
> 'nuff said. Hope you continue to enjoy the fic. Thanks to all who read / kudos / comment. Comments are my lifeblood and sometimes the reason I get out of bed in the morning.


	11. Comfortable. Alone. Private.

**Sansa**

Sansa felt a bit like a naughty kid looking around for hidden birthday presents, but her joy at passing a new milestone with Sandor overrode most other emotions.

It wasn’t a _huge_ milestone, really, but it felt kind of huge. For the first time in their nearly five-month courtship Sansa was alone at Sandor’s place. It was a Saturday and they’d hung out most of the day. Late morning brunch, then Sandor indulged her for a bit of shopping. Then some afternoon delight on his kitchen table, followed by a nap in his big, comfy bed. It was after 7 PM when they woke, and Sandor had to get ready to go out with the guys for Bronn’s birthday. It was a guy’s night, and Sansa admirably tamped down her jealousy at the thought that they might hit up a strip club. Sandor had laughed off her concern when she voiced it as casually as she could.

 _“You’re worried about me?”_ he had asked with an amused smirk.

Sansa had shrugged, _“Well… not generally, no. But surrounded by attractive, naked women… drinking. Bronn goading you on…”_

Sandor had rolled his eyes, _“A) even if I was single, I wouldn’t hook up with a random woman I don’t know – stripper or no. B) I already have the most sexy, smart, funny, sweet, perfect woman already. Why would I risk all that for a fling? C) No one said anything about going to a strip club, so you’re probably worrying for nothing.”_

Sansa felt somewhat mollified but couldn’t resist a joke, _“D) We’re talking about Bronn. His birthday won’t be complete unless he sees boobies.”_

But the most amazing part was when Sansa was collecting her things to leave, and Sandor, almost nervously, told her she could stay at his place while he was gone. He obviously wanted to be able to come home to her even if it wouldn’t be until the wee hours of the morning, and Sansa’s heart melted just a bit more than the already permanent state of gooiness it had been since she first kissed Sandor.

And now she was repaying his trust by rummaging through his things while he was gone.

She wasn’t generally a snoop, but she knew so little about Sandor’s past that she felt somewhat justified in trying to find _some_ clue of what his life was like before he met her.

She started with the bathroom. She’d seen the inside of his medicine cabinet before, on multiple occasions, but had never really noticed its contents other than the items she stored there for herself.

Said contents were pretty boring, she now found out. Like everyone’s medicine cabinet, there were expired medication bottles, adhesive bandages, powders, and lotions. There was a tube of some type of prescription ointment which she assumed was for athlete’s foot or some other male ailment.

With a sigh she moved to the hall closet which held a random assortment of items. Spare towels and sheets, bottles of sunscreen, cleaning supplies, a case of CDs cast aside in favor of an iPod, and other random and boring possessions.

It was only when she walked back into the bedroom that she realized what a breach of privacy she was committing. She would die of embarrassment if Sandor rummaged through her dresser drawers. He would find her high school diary filled with pages of gushing over the latest crush, complaining about annoying siblings, or listing her many aspirations to become a lawyer and save the world. He’d also find underwear with period stains on them, stick-on bras for wearing with backless dresses, and a battery-operated feminine wellness device. Or three. And _maybe_ an adult video she hadn’t watched since she discovered Pornhub, but that she was afraid of discarding where the trash collectors would discover it and realize she was a sexual deviant.

A silent battle between her curiosity and her conscience waged. The former won. She pulled open his top drawer and found nothing but socks and boxers until she fished her hand to the back and felt the cold metal barrel of a handgun. She ripped her hand away, startled but not surprised or bothered that Sandor would own a gun.

All the other drawers were disappointingly normal. Shirts, shorts, and pants. The most she could criticize was his folding technique, though who would expect a guy to share her compulsions in regards the proper way to fold a t-shirt for wrinkle prevention?

She looked around the room and her eyes landed on his nightstand.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

In the nightstand she found more “normal” – Chapstick, spare change, receipts, nail clippers, and a few condoms. In effort to feel a sense of accomplishment, she tried to summon jealousy at his possession of condoms, since she was on the pill and they didn’t use the latex contraceptives, but she never expected he was a monk before meeting her, and he may have even bought them _for_ _her_ before he knew she was on the pill. That he didn’t bother to hide them better made her feel certain he wasn’t using them with anyone else. Besides that, she trusted him, contrary to her present actions. This wasn’t suspicious snooping; it was curious snooping.

There was only one more place to search: the closet. It was a good size closet for a relatively small apartment, filled with his suits, coats, and sweatshirts. Along the bottom were shoes and sneakers neatly lined up. His folding technique may leave something to be desired, but his shoes were arranged from most casual to most formal, and it made her a tad horny.

Like the medicine cabinet, she’d seen but never _studied_ the inside of his closet. She noticed a wire shelf about six feet up. There were folded sweatshirts, spare pillows, and a few boxes.

_Boxes… Jackpot!_

She pulled down the boxes one at a time. The first was a disorganized substitute for a filing cabinet, containing paperwork like the lease agreement for his apartment, his employment contract (which she forced herself not to read), insurance policies, owner’s manuals for various appliances and electronics, and other miscellaneous documents.

With a sigh she pulled down the next box, finding a more personal collection that made her heart begin to race. Old concert ticket stubs. Gold coins. Unused bumper stickers. Tchotchkes. A multi-tool pocketknife. More receipts. A sterling silver lighter cover. Birthday cards…

Graduating to a new level of snooping, Sansa began opening the cards to read the message and sender’s name. Some were from friends who she knew either personally or by name – Bronn, Jaime, Beric, Thoros… those looked fairly recent. Then there were much older cards with designs that indicated they were received when Sandor was a young boy. She started at the oldest – a card for a son “on his 3rd birthday”, signed “Love, Mom and Dad”. For the fourth birthday, there was no “Mom”. The thought brought a tear to Sansa’s eye.

There were more birthday cards from his dad, though not one for every year. There were other cards signed with a girl’s name – Eleanor. By her penmanship Sansa assumed she was a younger sister or cousin, but Sandor had never mentioned any family.

When Sansa opened one of the cards an old 3x5 photograph slipped out. It was a photo of three kids – two boys and a girl. The eldest boy appeared very tall but by the roundness of his face it was clear he was not yet a man – perhaps sixteen when the photo was taken. His hair was close-cropped, and he wore a half smile. The middle boy had dark, shaggy hair. He looked to be perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and he didn’t smile for the photo. The most remarkable thing about him was that half his face was covered in scars. It was hard to tell from the photo but based on the fact that the scars covered every speck of skin on that half of his face, Sansa assumed they were burns. She stroked a finger over the photo of a stranger to her, yet someone Sandor knew enough to keep a photo of. The poor kid obviously went through something very painful and traumatic.

The girl in the photo was clearly the youngest, perhaps about ten. She was the only one who took ‘say cheese’ seriously. Her bright smile radiated right through the glossy paper, and Sansa found herself smiling back.

All three of the kids had dark hair and eyes and a similar complexion. Sansa assumed they were siblings, or at the very least cousins.

Turning the photo over, Sansa gasped at the note written in blue ink.

_“Lake Harmony ’97. Gregor 16, Sandor 13, Eleanor 11.”_

Sansa flipped the photo around again. By the ages, Sandor must be the smaller of the two boys. Now that she knew it was him, she could recognize the bone structure of his brow and chin, the shape of his lips, and the grey of his eyes. Even his nearly shoulder-length hair looked the same as it did today. But the scars! How could he be scarred so horribly as a teenager and now look completely whole and unmarred at thirty-six?!

Sansa sat back against the footboard of the bed, trying to slow down her racing thoughts and sift through her emotions.

The overwhelming feeling was sadness – that the man she loved had gone through something so dreadful in his childhood.

The next most prominent emotion was curiosity – how did he get those scars? How did he get _rid_ of them? And why had he never mentioned these siblings or cousins or whatever they were?!

Suddenly everything made sense… Sandor’s deep insecurity was entirely justified. He had spent who knows how many years with gruesome scars. Even after he did whatever he did to repair his face, he probably still thought of himself as disfigured. That was sad in and of itself – whatever procedure he’d undertaken had clearly been a complete success, yet he couldn’t even enjoy it!

_Margaery was right – he does have ugly duckling syndrome!_

Sansa hated herself for even calling it that, but she had no other term to use. He was never ugly, he was _hurt._ She wanted to go back in time and find poor young Sandor Clegane and tell him that someday everything would be better. That he wouldn’t wear his scars; that he would meet a woman who was crazy about him. That he’d be a successful, handsome, _good_ man.

Sansa picked up her phone and almost started dialing Sandor to tell him so many things – that she understood how he felt and would never again become frustrated by his insecurity. That she wanted to know everything about his family when he was ready to talk about it. That she wanted to know what had happened to him – how he became scarred – but would understand if it was too painful to talk about.

That she would love him even if he still had those scars.

That she loved him even more now that she knew he had survived something so awful and ended up becoming a wonderful man.

That she loved him so much it hurt.

But she couldn’t say any of those things. She put the phone down with a disappointed sigh. Perhaps if the photo had been in a dresser drawer, she could make an excuse – that she was cold and needed to borrow a pair of socks and inadvertently found the photo. But it was hidden away inside a greeting card inside a box inside his closet. Sandor was a very private man and finding out she’d been intentionally snooping might just make him lose all respect for her.

She carefully put away the contents of the box and got into her PJs to go to bed, knowing TV or social media would be useless as distractions on a night like this. Unfortunately it was still early, and Sansa desperately needed to unload everything she’d found out.

She dialed the one person who wouldn’t judge her for her invasion of Sandor’s privacy: Margaery.

“Hey, San, what’s up?”

“Nothing… um, I know you’re busy with last minute wedding stuff, but… do you got a minute?”

“Of course! And don’t worry – you know grandma is handling most of the stuff. At this point I’ve only got to show up for my bachelorette party and then for the wedding. The rest is covered!”

Sansa groaned at the reminder that in two weeks she’d be expected to attend Marge’s all-day and all-night bachelorette party. Two weeks after that she’d watch her friend walk down the aisle to wed Joffrey Baratheon, while trying not to vomit.

“So I just found out that Sandor had these… _scars…_ when he was a kid.”

“Oh, wow. Do you know how he got them?”

“No and I don’t think he’ll be open to talking about it.”

“Well what has he said about them?”

“Nothing; he’s never spoken about them at all!”

“Sooo… why does it matter now?”

“It doesn’t! I guess I’m just curious how he got such bad scars at such a young age. It’s so sad.”

“Yeah, I’m curious, too. Do you think Jaime might know?”

Sansa gasped, “Marge, you’re a genius!”

“So it’s been said!”

“Alright, I feel better knowing I have a plan. I’m sure Jaime will know something. Oh and by the way – don’t mention what I just told you to Sandor. Or anyone! I kind of found out because I was snooping through his things and found a photo of him when he was a kid.”

Marge laughed, “Sansa Stark you little sneak!”

“You judging?”

“Not in the least, darling!”

**Sandor**

Sandor woke up feeling like he’d been hit in the head with a wrecking ball. The last time he’d drunk so much he was in his twenties, with the metabolism to show for it.

It was noon by the time he could sit up and get out of bed without feeling like he would hurl. He stumbled into the bathroom and into a scalding hot shower. As usual, he felt the heat on the right side of his face but not the left. Those nerve endings were long gone.

When the water began to cool, he knew it was time to get out and face the day, even if only from the couch in his living room. He dried off and used a hand towel to clear some of the steam off the mirror so he could apply his ointment. The medicated moisturizer was $40 a tube but worth every penny; without it helping to soften his leathered skin, every smile or frown pulled uncomfortably tight. As always, he applied it most heavily at the skin around his eye, at the side of his mouth, and along his jawbone.

When he emerged in a cloud of steam, he let the aroma of coffee lead him to the kitchen. A cup of water and three ibuprofens were already laid out for him. He downed them immediately then poured himself a cup of joe and looked around for Sansa. All he found was a note taped to the refrigerator.

_“Yoga class with Jeyne. Be back with lunch by 2.”_

Sandor was both disappointed and relieved that he’d have another 90 minutes to recover from his hangover without Sansa there to witness it. Just the gulp of water and few sips of coffee were making his stomach churn. The word “lunch” written in Sansa’s happy handwriting added to the unpleasant sensation. He didn’t want her to waste her money on something rich or greasy, so he fished his phone out of last night’s pants and sent her a text: **The blander the better for lunch.** He dropped the phone on the bed and laid down again.

It was 1:30 when he got a reply: **Lol. Guess you had a fun night. How about chicken soup and crackers?**

He chuckled as he tapped out a reply: **How about just crackers?**

**Fine, but I’m starving. You can go in the other room if my Lo Mein offends you.**

**Ugh. Can’t you eat it outside?**

**Nope.** **😊**

Sandor smiled back at the smiley face. The generic little icon seemed like it should belong exclusively to her; it was so cheerful.

He remembered little of last night and was fairly certain the other guys were in the same boat. Bronn definitely was. Thoros definitely was. Perhaps Beric and Lannister were a bit more subdued, but not by much.

He noticed a couple missed voicemails and text messages were indicated. He started with the first voicemail which came in just after midnight from Beric. Sandor smiled as he could remember this part of the evening, at least.

 _“Hello Sansa, this is Beric. Your broody boyfriend won’t give me your phone number so I’m calling his number instead and hoping he will share the message with you, though judging by the way he’s looking at me right now my odds are not good. As I was saying. I’m Beric. I’m a good friend of Sandor’s, though don’t ask me why. He has been singing your praises all night, as much as he sings or praises anything, at least. I’m dying to meet you so I can tell you about every stupid thing he’s ever done. Ta-ta for now, dear!”_ Sandor smiled as he shook his head; he supposed he would play the message for Sansa, but he would grumble about Beric the entire time.

The next voicemail was from a slurry-voiced Bronn at 1:21 am.

_“Where the fuck are you cocksuckers? I leave for two minutes for a piss and you’re all gone. That’s it. I’m going home with this blond that keeps ogling me. Or maybe I’m ogling her. Fuck. Oh wait, I see you. Hi!”_

Sandor laughed. He had vague memories of this part of the night, though was pretty sure Bronn had disappeared for more than two minutes. Rather than going to the bathroom to check on him, they all flocked to the pool tables when one finally became available.

Sandor tapped on the text messages. Most were random texts from the other guys he’d drank with the night before, like Bronn’s voicemail, asking where the others were because they were too drunk to realize they might have stepped outside for a cigarette or just to get some fresh air.

Just as he was going through and deleting them all, he noticed a new text come in from Jaime. It was a group text to all of them: **If this is what happens on Bronn’s birthday, what will happen at Sandor’s stag party? …**

A few seconds later a photo of a tattoo popped up. A tattoo of Sansa’s name in artistic script with flowered vines woven throughout the letters. Sandor blinked at it. His heart began thumping in his chest. Cold sweat immediately formed on every inch of his skin.

“What the fuck?!” he said out loud, then typed the same phrase and hit ‘send’. Within minutes everyone responded with an ‘LOL’, meme, or the crying-laughing emoji.

 **Seriously – WTF?** Sandor sent to his unhelpful friends.

Beric was first to respond: **You lost at pool, remember? Thoros gave you a choice – either propose to Sansa or get her name tattooed on your body.**

Sandor sprung from the bed, his hangover immediately cured by the rush of adrenaline. He went to the bathroom and turned around in front of the mirror. There, on his right shoulder, was the tattoo, still red and slightly inflamed. He touched it and winced at the slight pain. That he hadn’t noticed it under the hot spray of the shower was a mystery, but one that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he now had Sansa’s name tattooed on his body and it was only a matter of time before she found out. Unless he broke up with her, which – given his fear of humiliation – seemed like the best option.

He didn’t get long to think, though, as the front door sung open and Sansa called his name. Sandor ran to the bedroom and threw on a t-shirt and sweatpants (in that order) then went to find her in the kitchen. She was pulling containers out of a tote.

“Hey babe,” she smiled as he came into view, “Got you crackers, but in case your tummy feels better later there’s some dumpling soup and white rice.”

“Yeah… um, thanks. I do feel better.”

Sansa smiled mischievously, “So… have a fun night?”

He snorted a forced laugh, “Yeah… from what I can remember…”

“Wow… that good, huh? Well I’m glad. Today we can just lounge around if you want. Watch a movie or… whatever you’re up for.”

“Yeah, movie sounds good. But um… we need to talk first.”

Her smile fell away and she crossed her arms, probably involuntarily, “Okay…”

“So, uh… something happened last night. And I think you might be kind of… angry about it.”

She shifted on her feet and Sandor could see a flush crawling up her neck. It wasn’t from embarrassment. This was an angry Sansa flush. He’d seen it only once in their relationship, but he’d never forget what it looked like.

“What. The fuck. Did you do?” she asked, tone frighteningly calm.

“Um, so… I lost a game of pool, apparently, and the guys – well Thoros, mainly – um… he gave me two options. Of punishment…” he took a deep breath, “one was to propose to you. The other was to… tattooyournameonmybody…”

Her eyes widened, “Ah, so proposing to me would be a punishment? Good to know.”

She turned to stomp into the hallway, but Sandor stopped her, “No!! Punishment was the wrong word. It’s like a… a dare! Like if you were a teenager and your friend dared you to kiss a guy you had a crush on? You want to kiss him anyway, so that’s not the punishment part. The punishment is potentially being humiliated… if he doesn’t want to be kissed by you, that is.”

She shook her head angrily but gradually her scowl morphed into a look of confusion, then understanding, then smug satisfaction. Sandor groaned.

“You didn’t propose to me…” she stated.

He closed his eyes, “No, I didn’t.”

“Sooo… You got my name tattooed on your body?”

He dropped his head, “My shoulder.”

“Show me.”

With a sigh he lifted his shirt high enough to expose the shoulder and turned so she could see it.

“Wow… that’s…”

“I know. It’s a lot. I’m sorry if it’s weird for you, or—”

“Sandor, I was going to say it’s really pretty. I mean, I assume you were shitfaced at the time, along with all your friends, yet somehow this doesn’t look like garbage.”

Sandor snorted, “Yeah… if I can remember the tattoo parlor, I should probably bring the guy a nice tip. He could have tattooed ‘asshat’ on my shoulder, and we’d have been none the wiser.”

“So… does it bother you?” she asked quietly.

He spun back around, “Me? I was worried it would bother _you_.”

She shrugged, “Well, I mean… I’ve never been crazy about those types of tattoos, just on principle, but most of the guys I’ve met who’d tattoo a woman’s name on their body were also the type who had no qualms about cheating on her. But actually, seeing it on you, it’s kind of… _flattering_. But you’re the one who has to live with it, so all that matters is how _you_ feel about it.”

Sandor stared at her, speechless. This woman never ceased to amaze him. She accepted him as he was – the good, the bad, and the ugly. Up until meeting her, he was certain there was too much bad and ugly, and not enough good. But somehow, in a matter of months, she made him discover the good in him. His sense of humor wasn’t dark, it was _wry_. He wasn’t cold, he was _reserved_. He wasn’t under-educated, he was _self-educated._ His self-opinion had increased ten-fold simply by having her approval and affection. He used to be certain he’d live his entire life alone, never experiencing a woman’s love, a happy home, and – _someday_ – perhaps even a family.

And now he’d gotten her name forever etched on his body, and instead of freaking out over the grand and irrevocable gesture, she only worried about what _he_ thought about it.

And what _did_ he think of it? If Sansa was indeed “the one” then he’d be with her forever, so the tattoo would never be something he’d come to regret. If she wasn’t “the one” he still wouldn’t regret it, because she was his first real love; the first woman to return his love wholeheartedly. The first woman to accept him without exception – without cherry picking the best parts of him and trying to change or ignore the others.

He pulled her into a hug, “I love you so damn much,” he mumbled into her hair, “and if there was ever a woman worthy of being commemorated in permanent ink on another person’s flesh, it’s you. On mine.”

A high-pitched noise came from the back of her throat and Sandor chuckled. She kissed his neck, then peppered both his cheeks with frantic kisses, pulling his head down so she could reach him.

He laughed at her excited ministrations then let her lead him to the bedroom, his cock already hardening at the thought of what was to come.

He was surprised when, instead of peeling off her clothes, she grabbed his phone from the nightstand, scrolled, tapped, then held it to her ear. He watched curiously as she waited for whoever she was calling to answer.

“Hi, Thoros?”

…

“Yes, this is Sansa… I just wanted to say _thank you,_ because I didn’t think it was possible for Sandor to be any sexier, but today I discovered I was wrong…”

…

“Yes, well, my only complaint is that it’s on his shoulder, not his chest. I’d really like to be able to see it when he’s fucking me.”

Sansa looked proud as punch as she ended the call to the sound of Thoros laughing on the other end. Sandor smirked at her, “You really are crazy, aren’t you?”

“That’s debatable, but I’m not in the mood to argue right now.”

“Oh yeah? What are you in the… oh, _damn_.” Sandor’s teasing was cut off by Sansa dropping to her knees and freeing his cock from his sweatpants only for it to find a new home in her mouth. She pushed his abs firmly until he dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, where she sucked him as if her life depended on it.

“Fuck… Sansa…” he groaned as he scooped her long hair into his fists.

She was completely ravenous, devouring his cock and moaning like it was the finest delicacy. He could tell by her fervor that this wasn’t foreplay; she wanted to get him off. And who was he to disappoint her?

An shamefully short amount of time later he felt his balls tightening. “I’m… I’m gonna cum,” he warned her. She didn’t care, continuing to suck every last drop out of him until he collapsed back on the bed.

When some blood was back in his brain, he let out a raspy laugh, “How many tattoos do you think I can fit on my body? Because if that’s how you react every time…”

Sansa smiled as she flopped down next to him, “As nice as it would be for you to turn yourself into a living mural extolling my virtues, I think one is enough…” she tilted her head up to look at him impishly, “For now.”

**Sansa**

They ate lukewarm takeout in bed, which Sansa had no intention of leaving until they both left for work in the morning.

With the distraction of yoga with Jeyne then Sandor’s tattoo incident, Sansa completely forgot about the prior night’s discovery and was glad she had. Putting it out of her mind had given her some perspective as she thought about it again now…

For one thing, she knew without a doubt that snooping through Sandor’s belongings had been _wrong_. If he’d given her some cause for concern and she had snooped for the purpose of her own safety – to make sure there were no skeletons in his closet, as her mom had put it – that would be one thing. But as far as she knew Sandor had never been dishonest or unfaithful to her. He'd never been violent toward her. Jaime, Bronn, and others who knew him had never made reference to him having a checkered past. Whatever happened in his childhood wasn’t her business and would have no bearing on how she felt about him today. If he chose to tell her about it, she would be very grateful. But if certain parts of his life were too painful to discuss, she would accept that.

So for this reason she decided _not_ to ask Jaime about Sandor’s scars, or anything else about his past. If Sandor wanted her to know, he would tell her, but she wouldn’t go behind his back to pry information out of their mutual friend.

Sansa was deep in thought so she didn’t notice that Sandor seemed similarly pensive until he cleared his throat. She looked up to find him seemingly debating whether to speak.

“You okay?” she asked casually.

“Yeah… was just thinking about last night.”

She hummed. She knew there was more to it but would let him tell her in his own time.

Eventually, he did, “So, just out of curiosity. If I had chosen the… _other_ option… what would you have said?”

It took her a moment to realize what he was referring to, but when she did her heart began to race in what should have been fear or nervousness, but only felt like excitement.

“Well…” she took a deep breath, “If you had called me, drunk as a skunk, and slurred your way through some weird marriage proposal… I’d probably have told you to ask me again when you were sober.”

She took a bite of noodles to distract herself while her words had a chance to sink in.

“Oh,” he practically whispered, “And if I’d have… done _that_?”

She smiled, “That also depends. How would you have done it?”

She could hear his pained groan and couldn’t help but giggle. He sighed, “I’d have asked your father first, for one thing. He strikes me as the old-fashioned type. Assuming he’d give his blessing I’d probably be at a loss as to what to do next… but I suppose I’d ask your mom or sister to help me pick out a ring, since I haven’t the first clue about jewelry… then I’d spend weeks driving myself crazy trying to figure out how to pop the question. Take you to a fancy restaurant? A moonlit walk on the beach? Rent a billboard?” he chuckled at himself, but Sansa could hear the nervousness behind it.

“Sounds rather stressful,” Sansa whispered.

“Aye, but it’d be worth it…” he rubbed a hand down his face, “Then again, maybe I’d think that the where and when don’t matter. The ring doesn’t matter. Even your dad’s approval doesn’t matter. Maybe I’d decide to do it when it’s just us. Comfortable. Alone. Private.”

Sansa nodded, “I think I’d like that better. Because it should be _our_ moment, right? Not anyone else’s. And I wouldn’t say yes because of the ring you bought, or the romantic atmosphere… I’d say yes because I love you and want to be with you… forever.”

Sandor repeated his earlier words, “ _Comfortable. Alone. Private._ I’ll keep that in mind…”

She smiled even though she couldn’t meet his eyes without crying big fat tears of joy and un-nameable emotions, “Your bed is _so comfortable_ ,” she stretched like a kitten to prove her point.

“Aye,” he agreed, voice hoarse, “My favorite place to be with you. Nice and _private_.”

She giggled lightly, “You just love having me all to yourself... _Alone_ … Just the two of us.”

She finally turned to face him just as he did the same. She bit her lip to contain the huge smile that would make her look like a fool during an otherwise earnest and significant moment.

Sandor took her hand, looking at it almost reverently, “You’re it for me, Sansa. I… I don’t think anyone else could even come close.”

Sansa nodded, “I don’t want anyone but you. I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”

She watched a swallow bob in his bearded throat, “I know the feeling. My chest hurts sometimes when I’m near you. In a good way… I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone.”

“I always wanted to feel this way but started to give up on the idea that it would happen.”

He let out a shaky breath, “I still don’t know what you see in me, but I’m coming around. Sansa, I… I feel like a better man when I’m with you.”

She couldn’t fight the tears any longer and allowed them to fall as she cupped his cheek, the one that had been nothing but scar tissue long ago, “What I see is a man who will love me. Who will protect me. Who will make me laugh, make me smile. Who will be true to me and never hurt me.”

He nuzzled into her hand and let out a sigh of relief, “I see a woman who accepts me for what I am. Who _sees_ me. Who loves me. A woman who is kind and generous; smart, warm-hearted. Tough but sweet… A woman I want to spend the rest of my life with… if she’ll have me.”

Sansa smiled, “She’d be crazy not to have you… and despite popular opinion, she isn’t crazy.”

Sandor chuckled then let a minute pass before sighing, “I suppose I should make this official...”

He took a deep breath as if preparing to dive under water. She saw his cheeks flush as he struggled to get out the question that millions of men had asked millions of women over the course of human history. But what he didn’t know was that everything he’d just said was so much better than hearing those four little words, so she held a finger to his lips, “Let the record show that Sandor Clegane asked Sansa Stark to marry him, and that she said _yes_.”

He smiled and laughed at himself, “How are you so fucking perfect?”

She shrugged, “Years of practice.” Her self-amused giggle was swallowed by his lips, tender and slow.

He hovered above her. Her man. Her boyfriend. Her fiancée. And someday soon – her husband. They kissed deeply and sweetly, peeling their clothes off gradually.

They’d had an active sex life these past few months – discovering different ways (and places) to enjoy each other. As Sandor became more comfortable, he showed her different sides of himself. Sometimes slow and sweet, but often passionate and animalistic.

But this felt like their first time, when Sansa was overwhelmed with the feeling of being loved. He moved inside her with patient thrusts, each one seeming to be a declaration of desire and adoration. She panted as he rocked against her, stroking against her inside and out with a slow rhythm that quickened as she got further and further into ecstasy.

He let himself go as she was cresting, and they came together. It felt like the perfect expression of their love and they happily drifted into a late afternoon nap twisted up in each other’s arms.


	12. Is it weird that it got me a little turned on?

**Sansa**

In respect to Margaery, Sansa didn’t announce her and Sandor’s engagement. She told her mother and Arya but swore them to secrecy. Sandor called her dad to ask for his blessing (not permission – too late for that!) Sansa assured her parents that they weren’t in any rush and wouldn’t even start talking about wedding plans until the new year, a few months away. This sufficiently assuaged her mother’s concerns. Her father, who claimed to have fallen in love with her mom the first time he saw her, was less concerned about the length of their engagement. After readily giving his blessing, he and Sandor stayed on the phone and talked about a recent boxing match and the playoff prospects of a few different hockey teams. When Ned insisted that Sandor join him for a hunt sometime in the near future, Sandor joked that he just wanted to get him alone in the woods so he could shoot him for taking his daughter. Ned laughed for a solid minute after that then finally composed himself enough to issue a reassurance – or a warning: _“Sandor, if I wanted you dead, you’d know it.”_

Sansa also told Margaery, Jeyne, and Myrcella when the foursome met for drinks one night after work. They’d each come around on Sandor, or at least did a good job of faking it, and that was all Sansa would ask for. Their genuine approval, if not already earned, would come in time.

She and Sandor decided they should live together before marrying, and each week more and more of her stuff made its way into Sandor’s home. She kept paying the rent on her apartment, but mainly because she had four months left in the lease. She had no fear of needing an escape hatch. If she and Sandor proved to be incompatible, they would work things out amicably, of that she was sure.

One night they were lying in bed reading when Sandor stood up abruptly. He paced the room and Sansa was worried that he was having second thoughts about their living situation until he yanked open the closet door and pulled down a box. Sansa’s heart sped up until she realized it wasn’t the box that she had found the photo in; it was one of the others that she hadn’t checked. He placed it on the bed and rifled through it, pulling out a dainty gold ring, which he proceeded to stare at with unfocused eyes.

“Sandor…?”

“Sorry,” he shook his head, “This… this was my mom’s. I’m going to buy you a ring, Sansa. A diamond, I mean. But this… I don’t have much from my childhood, but I have this, and I want you to have it. If my mom was alive, I’m sure she’d want you to have it, too.”

“Sandor,” she gasped, tentatively touching the smooth gold band with filigree etching.

“You don’t have to wear it as your wedding band. It’s probably out of style, but perhaps—”

She silenced him with a kiss, “I’d love to have it as my wedding band. It’s timeless. And – when you’re ready – I’d like to learn about the woman who wore it before me.”

He shrugged, “I don’t know much. Don’t remember much. She died when I was three and half. Brain aneurysm. I remember flashes of feelings. Of love, affection. That’s about it. My dad was in love with her, but he wasn’t very good at showing it, from what I gathered over the years.”

“Oh. How did you gather that?”

He shrugged again, “My older brother… he said Dad used to… well, you see, he was a violent drunk. Nice guy when sober but mean when drunk. I imagine my mom loved him when he was sober and was maybe afraid of him when he was drunk. I only know he did love her for true, even if it was a warped kind of love, because he would take us to her grave every year on her birthday. January 12th. He would sit and cry. And drink.”

“Wow…” Sansa was at a loss for what to say, so she just held Sandor’s hand but kept her eyes averted so he might feel comfortable continuing.

Sandor nodded, “Aye. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that.”

Sansa smiled wanly, “Well you can tell me anything, I hope you know that. And if it’s something you don’t want anyone else knowing, I will keep it a secret forever.”

He sighed, “I know you would.”

“So, do you ever see your brother?”

Sandor snorted, “No. I’d have to drive four hours to visit him behind plexiglass.”

“He’s in jail?”

“Aye. Six years into a thirty-year sentence. Knowing him he’ll get more time tacked on. Hopefully when he’s released, he’ll be too old and crippled to hurt anyone.”

“So he was violent?”

Sandor let out a mirthless chuckle, “As violent as they come. He’s the one… well… he’s the one who gave me my scars.”

Sansa nodded before remembering that Sandor didn’t know she knew about his scars. Luckily, she caught herself quickly enough, and he wasn’t looking at her anyway, “Your scars?” she asked innocently.

“Aye; held my face in a fire pit when I was eight years old.”

Sansa couldn’t stifle her gasp, “Sandor, that’s horrible. You were burned by your own brother?!”

“Aye. Gregor. My big brother. You know, the person who was supposed to look out for me? Fucking cunt lived to torment me. And my… and my kid sister.”

“You had a sister, too?”

He nodded.

“Is she—”

“Dead. Died with my dad. Car accident. He was drunk. No surprise. Neither of them had on seatbelts. Car was an old piece of shit; I don’t even remember if it had airbags.”

Sansa knew this was a painful memory so decided to focus on something other than the car accident or his brother, “What was her name?”

It took him a few seconds to respond, “Eleanor.”

“That must have been horrible, Sandor. Life isn’t fair if your brother lives and your sister and mother and father died. But I think… well, I think your mom and sister would be proud of the man you’ve become. In spite of or because of the adversity you’ve faced.”

Sandor snorted, “Not much to be proud of,” he turned to face her, “but they’d be proud of me snagging Sansa Stark, that’s for sure.”

She smiled, “I’m sure they’d also be proud of _you_. Honest, hard-working, kind.”

“I’m honest because I despise liars, Sansa. I’m hard-working because _not_ working was never an option for me. And kind?” he shook his head, “I don’t know how kind I am.”

“Well, you think I’m crazy and I think you’re kind. Maybe we’re both right. Maybe we’re both wrong. Or, most likely, I’m right, and you’re wrong,” she smiled at him.

Sandor smirked back before standing. He placed the ring carefully on her nightstand then put the box back in the closet. It seemed a symbolic gesture to show he was done talking about the past. Sansa would respect that even though a hundred questions were forming in her mind. He stowed away all his unpleasant memories in a shoebox and then came back to press a kiss to her forehead, “I’m gonna grab a snack. You hungry?”

She nodded, “Do we have any bananas left?”

He smirked devilishly before grasping his crotch, “I’ve got a banana for you.”

She couldn’t help but laugh so hard she snorted. Between giggles she managed to speak in what was obviously an attempted sexy-voice, “Well in that case, how about some whipped cream and chocolate syrup to go with it?”

He dropped his head back and groaned, “Woman, I thought you’d never ask.”

\--------------------------

Sansa woke with an aching head to the sound of her phone buzzing against the surface of her nightstand. It was probably her mom calling to catch up as they did most Sundays, so Sansa let it go to voicemail and snuggled back into her pillow, almost immediately drifting back to sleep until the same sound woke her again.

With a pained groan she reached for her phone. It was Margaery calling, and according to the phone it was already noon.

“Fuck,” Sansa muttered to herself as she swiped to answer, “Hullo?”

_“San! Where are you?”_

Sansa sat up even though her head and stomach protested the movement, “At Sand- at home. What’s wrong?”

_“It’s off! The wedding’s off!”_

“What?!”

_“Joff’s stag party was Friday…”_

“Yeah…” Sansa mumbled. Yesterday had been Marge’s bachelorette party – an all-day affair starting with facials and manicures at the spa, then a late lunch at an upscale café, followed by a stop at Myrcella’s house to prim themselves up for an evening of salsa dancing, followed by drinks at a different nightclub until the wee hours of the morning. Joff’s stag party had been the prior evening – a night of barhopping and undoubtedly a trip to one or more strip clubs.

_“One of his idiot friends posted photos online of their night. One of them showed Joff getting head in the champagne room at Silk Street!”_

Sansa was too hung over to summon surprise or even compassion, so she had to fake it, “Gods, Marge, I’m so sorry. Did you confront him about it?”

She heard Margaery sobbing into the phone, _“This morning when I found out. I could have forgiven it, San, after all we’re not married yet, but he was such an asshole about it! He had the nerve to get on my case because of photos Jeyne posted of me dancing with other guys last night. Dancing! He knew we were going out dancing! Most of them were Loras and Renly’s friends!”_

“You shouldn’t have to forgive that no matter that you’re not married yet, Marge.” Sansa looked up to find Sandor quietly creeping in to place a mug of coffee on the nightstand for her. She mouthed a ‘thank you’ then widened her eyes and pointed at her phone to indicate the type of conversation she was having. Sandor shook his head and rolled his eyes, probably being able to glean what had happened.

_“I can’t believe him! I know he’s a flirt, Sansa, but **this**?!”_

“So you told him the wedding’s off?”

_“Yes and he flipped out, saying I should be lucky to have him. That his family are wealthy and influential, and my family are just some nouveau riche Lannister-wannabes.”_

Sansa forced herself to stand up after taking a few sips of coffee. She couldn’t offer genuine sympathy, not when it was so tempting to scream ‘I told you so’, but she could offer a shoulder to cry on, “You wanna come over, hon?”

Marge sniffled, _“I’m already on my way, I’ll be there in ten. I’m going crazy and I need to figure out what I’m going to do.”_

“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit. Drive carefully, ok?”

After disconnecting Sansa made her way to the kitchen where Sandor was emptying the dishwasher.

“Is this a judgment free zone?” she asked.

He snorted, “Aye, since that’ll probably work in my favor more often than yours.”

“Good,” she smiled, “because Marge is on her way to cry and vent about Joff cheating on her and how she’s cancelled the wedding, but inside I’m doing the happy dance because it means I don’t have to go to the wedding and see that sniveling prick.”

Sandor chuckled, “Alright. Want me to get out of here?”

“No. If it seems like she wants privacy I’ll give you a hint, but Marge generally doesn’t care who hears what she has to say.”

Eight minutes and one piece of plain toast later, Marge swept into their house like a tropical storm, “I’ve decided to utterly ruin him; think you can help with that?”

Sansa shrugged, “I dunno, never ruined someone, though Joffrey has a way of inspiring me, so…”

Marge wore an embarrassed smile, “I’m not stupid, Sansa. I know what you’re thinking – that you warned me about him, that I shouldn’t be surprised, that I made my bed and now I have to sleep in it…”

“No, Marge. I mean _yes_ , I did warn you, but I don’t judge you for having blinders on. We’ve all done it with someone at some point. If I found out tomorrow that Sandor is a secret hitman, I’d probably still love him.”

She heard Sandor chuckle from the kitchen before he appeared with two Bloody Mary’s, handing one to each woman as he mumbled, “Some hair of the dog.”

Marge held up her glass in toast, “To the complete destruction of Joffrey Baratheon.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sansa clicked her glass.

Marge smiled, “Wait – Sandor, if you _are_ a hitman, now would be a good time to tell us. Because I have a job for you and money is no object.”

“Sorry,” Sandor shrugged, “been out of the game for years now.”

Marge’s eyes widened until Sandor shook his head at her gullibility. Marge let out a huff, “Well do you know of anyone in that line of work?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ll ask around.”

Sansa groaned, “Alright, Marge, so since killing him _may_ be off the table, how do you plan to ruin him?”

She sighed dramatically, “As fun as it is to fantasize about, first I need to figure out how I’m going to tell everyone the wedding is off. Two hundred guests, some flying in from Essos, for Gods’ sakes! This is so mortifying! What do I tell them?”

“That your fiancé turned out to be the world’s biggest cunt, so you cut him lose,” Sandor offered.

Sansa nodded, “Yeah, maybe honesty is the best policy. If you try to be diplomatic about it, Joff is just going to make shit up to make you look bad. Better to beat him to the punch.”

“I _cannot_ let everyone know he cheated on me! It reflects poorly on me!”

Sansa scrunched her face, “How?”

“Like that I wasn’t good enough for him, couldn’t satisfy him.”

Sandor snorted, “Bullshit. I’ve met that little twerp and I’ve met you. He was swinging above his weight and everyone knows it.”

Marge’s face squished up and she crossed her hands over her heart, “Aww… no wonder Sansa is crazy about you.”

“No, she’s just crazy,” he teased.

“Seriously though, do you have a brother?” Marge wiggled her brows.

Sansa’s eyes widened. She tried to send ‘don’t go there’ to Marge via psychic connection but Marge was oblivious. She was surprised when Sandor only let out another snort, this time less amused, “Aye, but he makes Joffrey look like a catch.”

Now it was Marge who looked surprised, “Wow, must be a peach.”

Sansa thought it best to change the subject, “Look, why don’t we work on drafting an email you can send to your guest list? Did you tell your wedding coordinator yet?”

Marge shook her head, “No, I just stormed out of Joffrey’s and called you.”

“Does Olenna know? Or Loras?”

Marge shook her head again.

Sansa took a deep breath, “Right. Looks like we have some phone calls to make.”

Sandor took that as his queue to leave, standing up and pressing a kiss to Sansa’s temple, “How about I head to the deli around the corner and pick up some sandwiches for lunch? Sounds like you girls will need your strength.”

Sansa nodded and couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t want to flaunt her happiness in front of Margaery under the circumstances, but she couldn’t _not_ smile when Sandor showed how thoughtful he could be.

“Tuna on rye?”

Sansa nodded.

“Turkey pesto for me darling! Oh – on a sesame seed roll, since I don’t need to fit into my wedding dress anymore.”

Sandor shook his head in amusement, “Alright, be back in a bit.”

Not two minutes after Sandor walked out there was a knock on the door. Sansa rolled her eyes, figuring he had forgotten his wallet. When she pulled the door open Joffrey was gaping at her on the other side.

She should have slammed the door in his face, or kicked him in the nuts, or told him to get bent, but instead she stood there, gaping back at him.

_How does he know where I live? Did he follow Margaery here?_

Before her body could react, he pushed inside and slammed the door behind him, “I see the guard dog’s gone.” His eyes found Margaery across the living room. She had stood up and looked as shocked as Sansa felt.

“Joffrey, Marge doesn’t want to talk to you right now. If you have anything to say why don’t—”

“Oh I have plenty to say, and I’ll say it now,” Joff stormed into the room and grabbed Marge by the arms, “You think _you_ are going to leave _me?_ ”

Sansa ran to Marge’s side and put a firm hand on Joff’s chest, trying to coax him to release her friend.

“Stay the fuck out of this, Sansa,” he snarled without taking his eyes off Marge, “You had your chance with me, and this is none of your business.”

“This is her house and she’s my friend!” Marge squeaked defiantly, “It _is_ her business.”

“ _Her_ house?” Joff sneered, “You moved in with that scarred, mangy mutt? Even you could do better.”

_How does he know about Sandor’s scars?!_

Sansa grabbed one of his hands that was still clamped around Marge’s arm like a vice, “Joffrey you need to leave right now or—”

“Or what?” he shifted his attention to her but didn’t release Marge. Sansa pulled the phone out of her pocket to call Sandor but Joff smacked it out of her hand, cracking the screen when it collided with the wooden coffee table.

“Joff, stop!” Marge shouted.

“No, you dumb bitch, _I’m_ going to talk and _you’re_ going to listen. You are _not_ ending our relationship just because I let some _skank_ suck me off. I don’t owe you an explanation, but I’ll give you one: it meant _nothing_ to me. Now grow up, stop your hysterics, and come home.”

Joff turned and yanked Marge by the wrist toward the door. Sansa didn’t know what to do other than run to block his way so he couldn’t drag Marge out into the street and into his car, “She doesn’t want to leave. Why don’t you go home so you each have space to think and cool off?”

“There’s nothing to think about and don’t tell me to cool off! My fiancé thinks she can dump me?! _Me!_ Do you know how many women would kill to be on my arm?”

“Then go get one of those women!” Marge used her one free hand to smack him hard on the shoulder.

He looked stunned for but a moment before turning around and walloping Marge in the mouth, still not releasing her wrist from his other hand.

Perhaps there was some wolf in Sansa after all for without thinking she found herself on Joff’s back, hitting his shoulder with the side of her fist while her other hand found purchase on his face, digging her nails into him. He let go of Marge who fell on her ass from the momentum of trying to pull away.

Suddenly pain was searing in Sansa’s back and Marge was screaming. It took a moment for Sansa to realize Joff had slammed her, back first, into the antique hall tree her mother had given her when she moved into her first apartment. Sansa’s grip loosened and she fell to land on her backside on the hard bench. Joffrey turned with a crazed look his eye and reared back his arm for what would have been a punch but that Sansa was coherent enough to protect her face with her forearms. The blow still hurt but now Marge had scrambled to her feet and was trying to pull his arms behind him. Margaery was a slight woman and her efforts only served to feed his fury, but he couldn’t handle both women at the same time. Each time he turned to face one of them, the other grabbed at his arms enough so that he couldn’t deliver any powerful blows.

With what little blood was still in her brain and not fueling her skeletal muscles Sansa tried to figure out how long Sandor had been gone, and how long it would take him to walk two blocks to the deli, get their lunch, and walk home. _Twenty minutes perhaps? How long has Joff been here? Five? Ten?_ Everything was happening quickly and slowly at the same time until Sansa felt a crack against her right cheekbone. Then hands gripping into her t-shirt and slamming her against the wall while Marge screamed and tried to pull him off from behind.

Sansa felt dazed and began wondering why she hadn’t let him go through the front door when he tried to leave. Sure, he’d had Marge, but Sansa could have called the cops or Sandor. Now they were just two slender women fighting a man fueled by red hot rage that neither of them had it in them to match.

Until…

Until Joff spun around and kicked Marge in the leg, bringing her down hard with a yelp onto the tile floor. Marge clutched at her leg and Sansa knew he had put all his strength into the kick. So she returned the favor, kicking him hard with her slippered foot between the legs from behind. When he buckled over in pain Sansa practically picked Marge up and tried to head for the door but Joff stumbled to block the way, looking a shade of green she’d seen on her brothers when they accidentally got kicked in the nuts while rough housing.

Sansa stood still and spoke firmly even though she was trembling, “Joffrey, Sandor will be home any second and if you’re here, it’s not going to be pretty.”

Joff flashed a sadistic smile, “That fucker’s smarter than you two put together. He won’t lay a finger on me because he knows my grandfather will destroy him.”

“You think he’ll care about that after he sees you’ve attacked us? You’ll be lucky if you get out of here alive.” It was a bit of a bluff. Sansa was certain Sandor could take Joffrey with one hand tied behind his back, but Joff’s confidence was disconcerting.

Unfortunately her threat only seemed to amuse him, “That what you like about him? He’s so _big_ and _strong,”_ he spit the words like they were insults.

“Joffrey!” Marge shouted, “you need to leave or I’m calling the cops.” Sansa turned to find Marge a few steps behind her, holding her cellphone out, the numbers 9-1-1 already punched in.

For a moment Joff seemed to consider making a dash around Sansa for the phone, but instead he snorted, “Whatever. You’re not worth the hassle, anyway. I got better head from a sixteen-year-old.”

Marge gasped, but whether it was from insult or disgust Sansa wasn’t sure. Sansa watched Joffrey take the two steps toward the door, but the moment he reached for the handle it opened from the other side.

Grey eyes widened when they took in Joff, then Sansa, then Margaery. There was a prolonged moment during which Sansa didn’t move or even breathe. Then a paper bag, presumably filled with sandwiches hit the floor only seconds before Joff’s limp body.

Later she’d psychoanalyze why the sight of Sandor effortlessly knocking Joffrey out with a single right hook made her womb clench, but for now Sansa had to focus on reassuring the man as he ran to her side, eyes swirling with fear and fury.

**Sandor**

It had been a long time since Sandor wanted to kill someone, _truly_ kill them, but as he stared at Sansa, disheveled, breathless, and red-marked on her arms, neck, and face, he wanted to beat Joffrey until even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

When Joffrey came to, Sandor stood over him, knowing he looked completely deranged. Joff was smart enough not to move or speak.

Sandor looked at Margaery, “Am I calling the cops or Jaime?”

Marge looked at Sansa then back at Sandor, “Jaime,” she eventually answered. It was the smart choice; the one Sandor would have made. An arrest would be public and embarrassing. Cersei Lannister would probably try to drag Margaery’s name through the mud, implying that Sansa and Marge had been the aggressors, that Joffrey had only come to have a calm discussion with his fiancé. But this way, if Margaery extended them the courtesy of _not_ having Joffrey arrested, they would owe her a favor. They’d sweep the incident under the rug and hopefully someone – Cersei, Robert, or Tywin – would talk Joffrey into leaving Margaery alone for good.

Fifteen minutes later Jaime was there looking equal parts angry and contrite. He grabbed Joffrey by the arm and yanked him outside, but Sandor followed them to the porch to issue a warning he didn’t want the women to hear, “Next time – if there is a next time – it will be either jail or the bottom of the bay. I’m heavily inclined toward the latter.”

Jaime nodded. Joff’s eyes widened and the little shit had the nerve to try to defend himself, no doubt feeling safe now that they were outside, surrounded by witnesses, “ _They_ started it. Marge hit me then your crazy bitch jumped me!”

Jaime was wisely shoving Joffrey down the steps and into his SUV before Sandor could change his mind.

Sandor returned inside, surprised to find Sansa and Marge hadn’t moved from their spots. He’d half expected to find them huddled on the couch crying into each other’s hair but instead they stood stock still, each staring at random spots on the floor. Sandor was pretty sure they were just beginning to process what had happened and might even be in a bit of shock.

Sandor approached the girls slowly, “Why don’t you two go lay down for a while?”

His words seemed to snap Marge out of her trance, though her eyes still looked vacant, “I’m going to text Loras to come get me. He can taxi over then drive my car. I… I… Thank you. But I think I want to go home. To grandma’s house.”

Sandor nodded, “Right. But before the day’s through you should… um… take photos… have your brother or grandmother take photos of any bruises or scratch marks or… anything.”

Marge looked at him curiously then nodded her understanding, “Insurance.”

“Aye. He might try to spin this. I know Tywin Lannister well, like to think I have his respect and trust. I can email the photos to him, make it clear that you two aren’t pressing charges, but that you easily could if Joffrey doesn’t keep his distance.” Sandor cleared his throat, “You two, Sansa. When you’re ready, you should… we should… take photos of your injuries.”

Sandor didn’t know Marge overly-well, but he never thought she was a particularly compassionate person until that moment. She didn’t shed a tear until Sandor mentioned Sansa’s injuries, but then all at once it was like someone had turned on a faucet. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Sansa put her arms around her shaking shoulders, whispering words of comfort, but Marge just shook her head furiously, “It’s _not_ okay. You’re my friend and you got hurt because of me. Because of my stupid choices. I never even loved him. We had fun for a time, but it’s been so long since I truly cared about him. I just wanted to be _that_ couple – wealthy, beautiful, powerful! I wanted everyone to be envious of us! When I saw that photo, my first reaction wasn’t to be upset that he’d cheated on me, but to be angry that he did it in public where anyone could see – and to let his stupid friend take a photo!”

Sansa stroked her back, “Marge, it’s okay. I forgive you, okay?”

“No! _I_ don’t forgive me! I gave you shit about being shallow but all the while I was the shallow one! I was the vain one! I don’t deserve your forgiveness!”

Sansa sighed, “Well you’ve got it anyway, bitch, so take it or leave it.”

Marge looked up, appalled then amused. She chuckled, “I’ll take it, bitch.”

“Good,” Sansa smiled earnestly while smoothing errant hairs back from Marge’s face.

Marge nodded, and like the queen she fancied herself to be, she straightened her back, dried her eyes, and put on an air of imperviousness, “By the way – seeing you kick Joffrey in the balls – is it weird that it got me a little turned on?”

Sandor groaned while Sansa giggled, “No. Is it weird that seeing Sandor knock Joffrey’s lights out made me _a lot_ turned on?”

“Girl, it would be weird if that _didn’t_ turn you on,” Marge winked at Sandor who was pretty sure he might finally die of embarrassment after many close calls in his life.

Probably encouraged by the blush he knew he was wearing, Margaery patted his cheek – the good one – and smiled, “I’m glad Sansa has you. If you’re half as clever as she says you are, you’ll never do anything to fuck it up.”

Sandor was at a loss for a witty retort, so he said nothing.

“Oh,” Margaery turned to Sansa, “we never worked on the emails.”

Sansa smacked her forehead, “Oh yeah. Should I come by tomorrow after work?”

The brunette scrunched her nose in contemplation, “Nah, I’ll let Grandma handle it. She has a way with words.” Her phone dinged and she looked down, “Loras is almost here. Ta-ta for now darlings!” She retrieved her coat and purse, grabbed her sandwich out of the bag that still sat on the floor of the entryway, and was gone. Sandor had always found Margaery to be petty, but she earned a bit of his respect today – for owning her mistakes and for not letting a cunt like Joffrey bring her down.

…

Without the presence of Joffrey, Jaime, or Margaery, Sandor finally had time to process his thoughts. He knew in the grand scheme of things it could have been so much worse. Neither girl’s injuries warranted a trip to the ER, or anything more than ibuprofen and an ice pack, but the idea of Joffrey laying his hands on Sansa had Sandor seeing red even hours later.

He had no appetite for the corned beef on rye. He couldn’t even bring himself to drink a glass of scotch to calm his nerves. He felt the overwhelming sensation to board up every door and window and spend the rest of his life here with Sansa, locked away like a pair of hermits. When Sansa emerged from a hot shower, he could tell her spirits had been lifted because _she_ was the one trying to cheer _him_ up, when it should have been the other way around.

She asked if he wanted to watch a movie. He declined with a grunt. She asked if he wanted to order a meat lover’s pizza, which was ordinarily his weakness. He didn’t. She even started kissing his neck but for the first time in their relationship he wasn’t in the mood. All he wanted was to sit and brood while thinking of how he could keep Sansa safe from harm. It’s what he did for a living, after all.

It was rather silly. He hadn’t worried about her when she was alone on the subway, or went out with her friends without him, but it was as if Joff’s attack yanked off his blinders to the fact that the city was filled with shady characters who were always ready to capitalize on an opportunity. A lone woman walking home late at night. An unlocked front door. A group of drunk girls at a bar.

He reached up to stroke her cheek lightly where a bruise was already blooming, “I want you to learn how to shoot, Sansa,” the words came out before the rest of his plan was even formed.

“What?”

“A gun. I’ll get you a small one you can keep in your purse when you go out. And when you’re home alone you’ll keep it within an arm’s reach at all times.”

She sat beside him on the bed with a deep sigh, “Sandor, I wouldn’t have shot Joffrey today. He was hurting us, yes, but our lives weren’t in danger and I knew you’d be back any minute… If anything he would have used the gun against _us.”_

“Fine, but it isn’t just Joffrey. What if someone breaks in?”

“Sandor, this is a very safe neighborhood. And I’m rarely home alone.”

“It doesn’t matter! All it takes is _one time_. You think it was a coincidence that Joff showed up while I was gone? He probably followed Marge here and recognized the place. Maybe he’s been following you, has seen you come here with me. He must have waited until he saw me leave… If it happened once it can happen again.”

Sansa sighed, “Look, if it will make you feel better, I’ll learn how to shoot. But I’m _not_ carrying a gun on me every second of every day!”

“Fine. You’ll bring it when you go out at night, though. Anytime you might be coming home late, or not have any men with you.”

She snorted as if this entire discussion was ridiculous, “How am I supposed to enjoy myself when I know there is a gun in my purse!? The whole night I’ll be worried that someone will steal my purse and get not just my phone and wallet but a deadly weapon!”

Sandor rubbed his face, “Please, Sansa. _Please_. Just take my word for it – the world isn’t as safe as you may think.”

Her brow crinkled, “You think I’m sheltered?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ve seen where you grew up, remember? You’re not naïve, Sansa, but until you’ve seen what I’ve seen you can’t possibly imagine—”

“Can’t imagine?! Anyone with a TV or smartphone sees how the world is. Murders, rapes, terrorist attacks… They happen every day, but that doesn’t mean I should live in fear.”

“I don’t want you to live in fear. But if I feel like you can’t protect yourself then _I’ll_ live in fear, and I don’t want that, either. I’ve seen too much fucked up shit in my life, Sansa.”

“Well I wouldn’t know, would I?” she mumbled.

“What?”

She crossed her arms, “I wouldn’t know what you’ve seen, what you’ve been through, because you never talk about it.”

“It’s nothing that you want to hear, believe me.”

She shook her head, and he could see her anger rising, “Well you finally told me about your family. Pretty bare details, but enough to know you had a fucked-up childhood. But I listened, didn’t I? I didn’t run away. I didn’t cry and beg you not to go on. Do you think I can’t handle whatever you have to say?”

“I’ve already told you all there is to know.”

Sansa threw her head back, “Really? A two-minute conversation is _everything_ there is to know?”

Sandor stood up, “What exactly is the problem here?”

She stood up to meet him, practically squaring off even though he was a head taller, “That you don’t open up to me! I told myself it would take time, that it is hard for you to talk about the past, that it’s hard for you to trust. But we’re engaged now, Sandor! You trust me enough to marry me but not enough to open yourself up to me?”

“I opened myself up more to you than to anyone I’ve ever met! What I told you about my brother – what he did to me – no one else knows that, Sansa!” Sandor felt his blood starting to simmer. Telling her about his mom, his sister, his dad, his brother… it had felt like cracking his ribs open to expose his heart, and here she was acting like it was nothing.

“Joffrey knows!”

“What?”

“Joffrey knows about what happened to you – what your brother did.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I never told Joffrey about Gregor. I never told _anyone_ about Gregor. Anyone except _you_.”

“Well he knows _somehow_. How long have you known Joffrey?”

Sandor was wracking his brain trying to figure out how this was possible. Had Gregor, years ago, bragged to someone about burning Sandor’s face? Had that someone told Joffrey the story? It was possible, Sandor supposed.

Sandor shook his head, “Gregor must’ve run his mouth. Perhaps to someone who knew the Lannisters.”

Sansa lowered her head, “I’m sorry. I guess you didn’t want anyone to know.”

Sandor plopped back on the bed, “It doesn’t fucking matter. Don’t even know why I’ve always kept it such a secret. I guess… actually, I do know. My father made us say it was an accident. He said if anyone knew the truth, they’d take me away. I didn’t want to leave Eleanor alone with Gregor. Then after they died, I guess I still didn’t want anyone knowing. Perhaps it was just force of habit. Or perhaps I… I guess it was embarrassing. When you’re a teenager you don’t want to admit that someone else got the better of you – no matter that, when it happened, I was a little kid and he was the size of a grown fucking man. Better to let people think it was some freak accident. Or later, let them think I got it during combat, or saving someone from a burning building, or… something. But I guess… it really doesn’t matter anymore.”

Sansa sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around his waist, “I’m still sorry. The truth should come out on your own terms. And I shouldn’t have given you shit about not opening up more. But I guess I just… sometimes it doesn’t bother me and other times it does. Maybe after everything that happened today, I was looking for something to be bothered by. Something _else_ to be bothered by, I mean. But I don’t want to fight.” She pressed her face into his neck and all his anger melted away. She alone had that effect on him. His rages used to be things that just had to burn themselves out, and usually after breaking some furniture and downing unhealthy amounts of whiskey.

He rubbed her back, lightly, avoiding the places where she was bruised, “I don’t want to fight, either. Not with you. Not ever with you. And if you want to hear about my life, I’ll tell you. Though I don’t know why you’d want to know… fucking shit show.”

“Well that shit show somehow made you so perfect it’s annoying.”

Sandor let out an annoyed sigh but bit his tongue. She was blind or crazy to think he was perfect, but he was done complaining about it. Now he just hoped she’d stay blind and crazy forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the drama, I just can't write a fic that has Joffrey as a character without having him be a giant, raging hemorrhoid for at least one scene. This fic had two such scenes though obviously this was more dramatic than Myrcella's wedding.


	13. The girl knows how to throw a party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short and fun chapter, like Margaery Tyrell.

**Sansa**

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Marge would use the day of her would-be wedding to celebrate the end of her relationship with Joffrey Baratheon.

Since many things weren’t refundable so close to the wedding, Marge decided to say ‘fuck it’ and throw a big party at the hall she (Olenna) had already rented. The DJ was there, the bar was set up, and the caterer gave her a partial refund in recognition of having a much smaller event to cater. Instead of a seven-course meal, there was an assortment of finger foods. Instead of white cake, there was red velvet, though Marge took to calling it “blood red” – and everyone knew whose blood she was referring to.

Instead of Marge’s entire extended family plus friends, the revelers included her network of friends and friends of friends. Loras and Renly showed up with, what Sansa guessed, were all the gays in King’s Landing. Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, and Myrcella were each there with their significant others. Bronn invited himself even though he hardly knew Margaery. Marge’s two dozen cousins were there, plus her other friends and coworkers.

Jaime and Myrcella were the only Lannister representatives and neither cared that the event was essentially a ‘bash Joffrey’ party.

Her flower arrangements, also non-refundable, were divvied up into smaller bouquets so each guest could bring some home.

Marge’s father and grandmother made a brief appearance but left quickly. Everyone was dressed for a nightclub, not a wedding. It was the first time Sandor got to see Sansa in her slut get-up. Tousled bedroom hair, smokey eyes, red lipstick, and a tight black mini. It was the only outfit Marge approved for the occasion. It was enough to make Sansa blush, even though it was almost conservative in contrast to Marge’s frock which was one cut-out away from being a bikini.

Even Arya had been peer-pressured by Marge – who could turn on the heartbroken lover act with frightening conviction – into wearing a black jumpsuit with a deep-V that revealed the inside of her breasts. Suffice to say, Gendry didn’t seem to blink the entire evening. To Sansa’s shameless delight, Sandor didn’t do much blinking either.

Somehow Marge had time to actually structure the party as if it were a real wedding. Loras walked her down an “aisle” made of deep purple rose petals to where Marge stood on a platform to address her guests. The sassy girl had everyone in stitches as she made not-so-subtle references to Joffrey, ranging from the size of his penis to the pubescent squeak his voice had whenever he complained about not getting his way. Marge even gave a shout-out to Sandor (much to his displeasure) for punching Joffrey – “a memory I’ll cherish for the rest of my life”.

Sansa was shocked and embarrassed when Marge called her up to have the first dance. Marge put her at ease a bit when she made a joke, “Now watch your hands, Sansa Stark; I _happen_ to be a lady.” She winked scandalously enough that no one believed her for a second. Sansa obliged her, assuming the stance of a male dance partner and holding it while waiting for what she expected to be a slow song about heartbreak or moving on. When Whitney Houston’s _I Wanna Dance with Somebody_ blared out through the speakers, Sansa doubled over in laughter before joining her friend for a very 80s performance. When Marge practically did a trust fall, forcing Sansa to hold her in a dip, she lifted her toned leg up so high it skimmed Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa squirmed internally wondering how many men would be reimagining the scene later during a _private_ moment. But Marge didn’t care – she soaked up the spotlight and didn’t apologize for her vanity.

The song concluded and Marge breathlessly took the microphone, “Thank you for the dance, baby! Now get that sweet ass back over to your man.”

Sansa did just that, hiding her face in Sandor’s chest and wondering if anyone would notice if she spent the rest of the night there.

The night blurred together in a pattern of eating, drinking, dancing, talking, and laughing. Even Sandor seemed to have a good time, though he mostly stuck with Jaime, Bronn, Gendry, or Arya – and of course Sansa herself.

Sansa didn’t want to leave his side, knowing he was uncomfortable in such large groups, but she got pulled into more than a few dances by Margaery, Myrcella, Loras, and Jaime. There was a definite theme to Margaery’s song list. _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. I Used to Love Her_ (Marge belted out “him” each time). _Sunday Morning. You’re so Vain. Since U Been Gone. Go Your Own Way. Stronger. Beat it. Tainted Love._ Sansa was once again impressed with how much her friend had pulled off in two weeks. Then again, Marge’s “job” at her grandmother’s company had always been pretty loosely defined, so her days weren’t exactly busy.

Though Marge insisted on no gifts, many brought tongue-in-cheek presents anyway. A gift certificate for a dating service (Sansa’s gift). A frighteningly large and anatomically realistic dildo (Loras’ gift). Bottles of expensive champagne. Romance novels. Pornographic DVDs. Clubwear bordering on lingerie. Gift cards for local ice cream parlors and liquor stores. A gift card for a male revue (Olenna’s gift, given by Renly). A frighteningly small and flaccid dildo that was surely designed for amusement only (Arya’s gift, along with a note that read _“in case you miss Joffrey.”_ )

More dancing ensued and Marge didn’t seem to notice or care when Sansa grabbed Bronn and forced him to cut in. Marge was pretty plastered by that point and swayed with the man who grinned devilishly at Sansa. She expected to find a _thank you_ card in her office on Monday, and maybe one of the lemon-poppyseed muffins he knew she couldn’t resist.

She sat back and kicked off her shoes, resting her aching feet and wishing she could put them up on the table without flashing everyone. Though it was doubtful anyone would notice, as inebriated as they all were. Except Bronn. She was pretty sure he had some sixth sense for knowing when a nip slip or panty flash was about to happen.

She was surprised when a large hand slipped into hers. Sandor nodded toward the dancefloor as he tugged her, “Come on.”

“What? But you don’t dance.”

“Aye, so hurry up before I change my mind.”

“My shoes,” she squeaked as he led her to the dancefloor.

He glanced down at her bare feet, “You can stand on my toes if you need to,” he joked.

She was surprised to find that Sandor could, in fact, dance; though it was a slow song, and the idea of him moving to anything even remotely up-tempo almost made her laugh out loud.

With her shoes off and his on their height difference was even more pronounced, but she loved it. The top of her head came up to his chest, and when she leaned it there, he pulled her hand to his lips, leaving it pressed there with no apparent intent to take it away.

Sansa angled her face up, resting her chin on his sternum, “I don’t want a big wedding, just so you know, but I will expect one dance. Even if it’s alone in our living room.”

Sandor chuckled, “I think I can manage that.”

She watched his eyes scan the crowd.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

He shook his head, “Everyone’s looking at me, but I think for a change they’re jealous, seeing as I have the prettiest girl here. And Margaery was right – you have the sweetest ass I’ve ever seen.”

Her choices were to tear up or kiss him. She practically pulled herself up by his shoulders, but he obliged her by leaning down to kiss her. She knew it must be straining his back to be so hunched over, but she didn’t care. When she felt his right hand travel down to graze her butt she giggled against his lips, “Now everyone’s _really_ jealous.”

“Damn straight,” he mumbled before continuing to suckle her lips.

The song ended and the lights turned up a bit. The evening was coming to a close and all Marge had left was to cut the cake.

In a surprising display of chivalry, Bronn helped her walk to the cake table on wobbly legs, then let her lean against him to take off her shoes. When Marge pulled a machete – a _real_ machete – out from beneath the table, a chorus of gasps filled the hall. Bronn’s eyes went wide, and he quickly wrapped his hand around hers on the handle, “Why don’t you let me help you with this, doll?”

Marge shrugged and together they hacked into the cake twice, creating big V-shaped pieces at each layer. Bronn managed to wiggle the weapon free from her hand and turned to return to where Sandor, Jaime, and Sansa were now sitting, only to stop dead in his tracks when a piece of cake hit him in the back of the head.

Every guest fell silent while waiting for the return strike. Bronn surprised them all by lifting up Marge’s petite body and plopping her ass-first into the cake. Marge’s cackles were the loudest by far, which was saying something since the entire room was belly laughing.

Eventually Bronn pulled her to her feet. She spun around to show that her back, butt, and the back of her thighs and arms were covered with icing and bits of deep red cake. Margaery pouted but was clearly unbothered.

“Ten bucks says he licks it off,” Jaime mumbled.

Sansa scrunched her face while Sandor laughed, “I don’t take bets I can’t win, Lannister.”

Not five seconds later Bronn bent down to lick icing off her skin where a cut-out twisted around the right side of her waist. Sansa was glad he hadn’t licked the back of her thighs, for her own sake, not Marge’s.

“Who wants cake?!” Marge shouted through peals of laughter as she spread her arms open.

The revelry continued for a while longer, though the late hour made folks more subdued and many people were on their phones calling their rides or requesting a rideshare.

Sansa found Jeyne and Myrcella chatting quietly at a table while their respective men were at the bar enjoying their last drinks of the night.

Myrcella looked at her with a smile, “Is it weird that I’m jealous of Marge’s unwedding?”

Sansa laughed, “Nope. The girl knows how to throw a party, no one can say otherwise.”

“What about you? Getting any inspiration for your own wedding?” Myrcella bit her lip and raised her brows mischievously.

Sansa leaned back and sighed, “Actually? I’m thinking that I don’t want any of the fuss. I’m tempted to drag him to the courthouse on Monday.” She was surprised to realize she was only half-joking.

Jeyne and Myrcella’s jaws dropped in unison. “That soon?” Jeyne asked, an almost horrified look on her face, “You said you weren’t in any rush.”

Sansa shrugged, “What can I say? When you know, you know.” Her eyes found Sandor across the room and as if on cue he turned to face her, offering that shy almost-smile that made her melt.


	14. That fucking witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, babies...

**Jeyne**

“So you’ve submitted your thesis?” Melisandre asked after taking a ladylike bite of salmon.

Jeyne groaned, “Yes, and I’m a nervous wreck!”

“Don’t be,” Melisandre smiled, “You have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re biased,” Jeyne teased.

“I’m also right! I’ve worked with many students and read a fair number of dissertations. Yours was original and truly inspired.”

Jeyne felt her cheeks blush, “I’m surprised I got it done in time. Marge’s unwedding left me with a two-day hangover.”

Melisandre nodded thoughtfully, “Your friend is on her right path. It’s wonderful that she has such supportive friends and family.”

“Yeah,” Jeyne agreed, “But my head is still spinning from all this. She and Joff were together so long only to have their engagement go up in flames. Meanwhile Sansa – Ms. Eternally Single – is talking about eloping with her boyfriend of six months.”

Melisandre smiled, “She found her other half.”

“Yeah. Like _that_ ,” Jeyne snapped her fingers.

Melisandre nodded, “Then it worked.”

“What worked?”

“Do you remember when I met your friend at the college?”

Jeyne frowned, “Yes. Why?”

“I could see she was lost. So I gave her a little nudge in the right direction.”

“A nudge? You hardly spoke to her.”

“I said enough.”

Jeyne was thoroughly perplexed and starting to wonder if the rumors about the Red Priestess weren’t true – that she was a little batty. “I don’t understand.”

“Your friend was fixated on the exterior. She was closing herself off from true love and happiness.”

“Wait… what exactly are you saying?”

“Haven’t you noticed your friend seems… _different_ … since that day?”

“Well, yeah. She was going out of her way to prove to us she wasn’t shallow, since we’d mocked her about it just the night before. I think that’s how she ended up with Sandor. He isn’t exactly her usual type.” Jeyne felt bad saying it out loud, but it was true. The man seemed decent enough, but Sansa had always dreamed of the full package, and Jeyne couldn’t understand how she found it in someone like Sandor Clegane but not in someone like Jaime Lannister.

“And isn’t that a good thing?” Melisandre asked.

“I suppose. I mean, at first I thought he was a bit coarse, and not near good enough for Sansa. But it’s clear as day that he cherishes her.”

Melisandre smiled again, “Then that’s all that matters.”

Jeyne was quiet for a time, mulling the woman’s words.

“Melisandre… what did you mean you gave her a _nudge_?”

The woman hesitated to answer, and Jeyne almost gave up on expecting one. Eventually she sighed, “I spoke words to free her from her fixation... So that she will see beauty where she used to see only imperfection.”

Jeyne scrunched her nose, “Sandor is heavily scarred. I don’t know how, but somehow half of his face was burned terribly. It’s rather… jarring. Are you saying Sansa sees his scars as _beautiful_?”

Melisandre let out an almost mocking laugh, “I’m saying she doesn’t see his scars at all. His scars don’t define him any more than your brown hair defines you. What she sees is a reflection of his true soul.”

“Wait,” Jeyne held her hands out, “What do you mean she doesn’t see his scars?”

Melisandre shrugged, “I mean just that. She doesn’t see them.”

“But… _how_? That isn’t possible.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, do you agree?”

“Well, yes…”

“Some people think freckles are beautiful, some think they are ugly. Some prefer blue eyes, others brown. Some think scars are ugly, others think they show character… What we think we think we “see” is actually our subjective perception of the visual world. A Rorschach test proves this. You see a butterfly where I see a bat. You see a face where I see a heart.”

“But this isn’t some blurry ink blot, or a matter of personal preference. The man has scars, as clear as day. How can she not see them?! Or _feel_ them?!”

“The brain sees what the heart wants to feel. For example, we find beauty in the familiar faces of our loved ones, even if _society_ wouldn’t deem them beautiful.”

“Right, but we’d still see if those faces were scarred! We would just learn to see those scars as something that isn’t unattractive.”

“But Sansa would not have opened herself up to seeing his beauty. You said yourself she was shallow. I… altered her perception.”

Jeyne shook her head, feeling utterly betrayed, “The words you spoke… you… you brainwashed her! No – you _hypnotized_ her!

“I _de_ -hynotized her. She’s been hypnotized her entire life. She’s been totally focused on the outside. I gave her the ability to see the inner beauty that’s in everyone, including the people you think are not so physically attractive.”

Jeyne gasped, “But that’s _wrong_. You played with her mind. You… you programmed her mind to see what isn’t there. Or to _not_ see what _is_ there!”

Melisandre shook her head, “Everything we know about beauty is _programmed_. Television, magazines, movies. They’re all telling you what’s beautiful and what isn’t. How is this any different?”

Jeyne shook her head, “Does she not have the right to see him as he is? His scars are part of him – they tell a story. And maybe it’s wrong for people – myself included – to judge him by his appearance… to judge _anyone_ by their appearance, but you took away her free will to see his scars and get past it.”

“You said she is happy with him. He is happy with her. Isn’t that more important?”

“She’s happy with a lie!”

“I assure you, what she sees in him is only his true self, uncorrupted by the bias we all carry. If she loves him, she loves him for who he really is.”

“And if she truly loves him, she would love him even with the scars! What will happen when she finds out? You can’t expect her to go the rest of her life without someone – maybe _him_ – making an explicit reference to his scars! She’s already complained to us that she gets annoyed by his self-consciousness at times. Now I realize why it’s so confusing to her – she doesn’t realize what the poor man lives with.”

Melisandre contemplated her with narrowed eyes as Jeyne continued, “What happens when she realizes how he really looks and wonders why she can’t see it? I _will_ tell her about this. If she thinks she was somehow manipulated into being attracted to him, what then? She might resent it… she might feel like she’s been lied to by everyone, including him. _Please_ tell me you can undo this before it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“Yes! I just told you she is talking about eloping. That he’s the one and so there’s no point in waiting. Doesn’t she have the right to know the man she is going to marry? According to you, she already knows the _inner_ him, shouldn’t she also know what he looks like? Shouldn’t it be _her_ choice whether she finds him beautiful or not?”

Melisandre sighed, “I don’t want to cause her or him any pain… Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d fall for someone with a disfigurement that is so obvious to others. I understand your concern. I don’t think it’s a secret that can stay hidden forever…”

“So you can undo it? Un-hypnotize her, er, re-hypnotize her?”

Melisandre nodded, “There’s a simple way. I only hope that this is the right choice...”

“The longer they are together the more likely this will be painful – for both of them – when they realize what was done.”

“Alright. Clearly you know your friend better than I do, Jeyne. And I trust you are doing this in _her_ best interest, and not because you don’t approve of her relationship.”

“I promise, I only want to see my friend happy, and I don’t care who she’s with as long as he treats her well. And Sandor obviously treats her well.”

“Fine. Can you call her?”

Jeyne pulled out her phone, nearly dropping it with her butterfingers. She dialed Sansa.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, San. Uh… where are you?”

_“At work. Everything okay?”_

“Yes. Is Sandor with you?”

_“No, he’s meeting with a client. What’s wrong?”_

“Can you leave work to meet me?”

_“Jeyne, what’s wrong?”_

“Nothing. I promise I’ll explain everything. Just tell me if you can meet me.”

Sansa sighed into the receiver, _“Yeah, just give me twenty to wrap things up.”_

“Great, meet me at the café on 8th Street – the one where they make their own Caesar dressing.”

_“Fine, but can you at least—”_

Jeyne handed the phone to Melisandre.

“Sansahasalover.”

There was a pause, probably while Sansa asked what the hell was going on.

“Sansahasalover,” Melisandre repeated calmly. She ended the call and handed the phone back to Jeyne, “It’s done.”

Jeyne rather rudely fled from the restaurant, leaving Melisandre with the check.

**Sansa**

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Just wait,” Jeyne’s eyes were darting around the large café, “Oh, there!” she pointed across the room.

Sansa followed her eyes and finger to see a waiter taking an order at another table.

She turned back to face Jeyne, “Am I supposed to know him?”

Jeyned leaned close, “Does he remind you of anyone? A certain actor, perhaps?”

Sansa looked at the waiter again before turning back to Jeyne, “Um, no.”

“Well the last time we were here you said he looks like a young Benjamin Bratt.”

“Uh, no. I remember saying that, but it was a different waiter. Maybe you should lay off the Apple-berry Sangria.”

“No, it was him. You saw a hot, Benjamin Bratt lookalike but what I saw is the guy you’re seeing now.”

“Jeyne, what the hell are you going on about?!”

“Do you remember when you met Melisandre?”

“Yeah, when she said San—”

Jeyne’s hand flew to cover Sansa’s mouth, “Sansa, those words were like a.. a _spell_. She did something to make it so you’d see inner beauty on the outside. That waiter is probably a very nice man who just happens to have acne and a unibrow, but all you saw was someone beautiful, because he’s beautiful on the _inside_.”

“Jeyne, I’m not joking – I seriously think you are having an episode of some sort. Did you bump your head? Did you start on a medication?”

“Listen to me!” Jeyne grabbed her hands with a desperate grip, “It’s not just the waiter, or the clerk at a boutique, or guys at the club… it’s Sandor, too! You don’t see him as he really looks because—”

Sansa wrenched her hands away, “Unbelievable! You are still on about this? Sandor is a great guy, and I’m sorry that you don’t see it, but—”

“I know he’s a great guy! But I can’t let you marry him un—”

“No.” Sansa stood up, “I don’t know what your issue is with him, you’ve looked at him like he’s a fucking serial killer since the first time you met him, but I’m not going to let you sit here and insult the man I love.”

“Sansa, listen to me please, there are things about him you don’t know!”

“I know all I need to know about him, and as a matter of fact… Now I left work because I thought you were having a crisis of some sort, but clearly you’re just trying to convince me – _again_ – that Sandor isn’t good enough for me. I’m sorry you don’t see him the way I do, but I’m not going to waste my time trying to convince you you’re wrong.”

She walked out of the café only for Jeyne to stop her as she hailed a cab, “Sansa please! You have to listen to me before you see Sandor again!”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Bugger off, Jeyne… You’re still my friend, I still love you, but just… _bugger_ off.”

She ducked into the cab and fought the urge to cry. Jeyne was her least judgmental friend and somehow the only one who couldn’t bring herself to get past whatever parts of Sandor’s personality she _thought_ were disagreeable. If Marge and Arya and her _parents_ could accept him, Jeyne would too… eventually.

…

“Hey, Sansa; I thought you were going home early?”

Sansa turned just before stepping into her office. Behind her a short, obese young man was talking to her. His face looked vaguely familiar, but Sansa couldn’t place it, “Do I know you?”

He quirked a smile, “Funny. Have some wine with lunch?”

“Huh? How did you know I took a late lunch?”

“Umm… because you told me you were?” he answered timidly as if he wasn’t sure.

Sansa crossed her arms and was about to tell a second person to bugger off when a girl with mousy brown hair approached from down the hall, her nose buried in a document. The girl glanced at the man, “Hey Sam,” then at Sansa, “Hey Sansa… didn’t think you’d be back… I’m done with the arena contract, but I have some questions for you…”

Sansa gaped at the girl. It was very clearly Shireen, but the left side of her face and neck was scaly, red, and inflamed.

“Shireen! Your face!”

Shireen’s free hand flew to her cheek as her eyes went wide, “What’s wrong?!”

“You have a rash! Do you have an allergy to anything? What did you have for lunch?”

The man named Sam cleared his throat, “Uh, Sansa… Shireen has psoriasis… remember?”

She turned to him as he spoke, “How… who…” _Sam! That’s who he looks like! But Sam is thin… he couldn't have gained a hundred pounds while I went to lunch with Jeyne._

_Jeyne… Jeyne said…_

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, “Sam… Tarly?”

He laughed nervously, “Sansa, I think maybe you should sit down.”

It was sound advice, since the room was starting to spin, but Sansa instead found herself walking unsteadily toward Jaime’s office.

She nearly stumbled up to him, grabbing him by both shoulders and probably looking like a mad woman.

“San, what’s—”

“I need you to slap me as hard as you can,” she closed her eyes, waiting for the sting.

“Um, I’m not going to slap you. Try asking Bronn.”

“Dammit Jaime! Slap me!”

“Have I pissed you off? Are you trying to get me to slap you so you can sue me and take my company?”

“No! Just, ugh!!” she collapsed onto his sofa, “Is Sam fat?”

“What?”

“Sam… my intern… is he fat?”

“Well, I’d rather not say…”

“Dammit Jaime. Is he overweight? Metabolically challenged?”

“Well, yes, I’d say so. Why are you—”

“And does Shireen have psoriasis on her face?”

“I think that’s what it is. Or maybe eczema – I always get those two mixed up.”

Sansa swallowed her dread, “And Sandor… is he… fat?”

Jaime laughed, “Uh no. Probably the fittest guy I know.”

She sighed audibly in relief, “And is he… _ugly_?”

Jaime sat down and put a hand on her thigh, “No, Sansa. I don’t think Sandor is ugly. Now why are you asking me these very odd questions?”

Sansa shook her head, replaying every social encounter she’d had in the past six months.

“The restaurant with Marge… the hot guys she _miraculously_ didn’t notice. The salesgirl at the boutique. The guy Marge tried to set me up with at Myr’s wedding…”

“What guy?... Oh the one that was in the Peace Corps?”

“Yes,” she groaned, “did you think he was good looking?”

Jaime shrugged, “Well, yeah. If you won’t call my sexuality into question, I might even say he was hot. Not the sharpest tool in the shed though, as I recall. And he didn’t seem to know much about Pentos considering he claimed to have been deployed there.”

“Oh fuck!” she stood up and began pacing.

“What? Did you hook up with him or something?”

“No I didn’t hook up with him! Because his face was too flat and his shoulders were narrower than mine!”

Jaime looked up at her, confusion written all over his face, “Are we talking about the same guy?”

“Ugh! This is so fucked up! That fucking witch!”

“Margaery?”

“No the _literal_ witch – the Red Witch! Arya was right, she’s into some weird voodoo or something!”

“San, can you stop pacing? You have me worried.”

She shook her head and darted out, ignoring Sam and Shireen. She bumped into Bronn as he was making his way out of the kitchen, “Slow down, Red! Where’s the fire?”

She ignored him too and ignored everyone and everything. By muscle memory alone she exited the building, boarded the train, and somehow made it to her townhouse. The townhouse she now shared with Sandor. Sandor who wasn’t fat, and wasn’t ugly, but didn’t look like the man she’d fallen in love with. Somehow, someway, a stranger would be coming home to her tonight without realizing he was a stranger to her. Or at least that he _looked_ like a stranger to her.

And how on earth could she tell him what had happened? How could she explain something she herself wouldn’t believe unless she’d lived through it?

She poured herself a glass of Cabernet and went to the bedroom, trying to slow her mind and focus on the monumental problem she was facing.

She tried not to think too hard on what Sandor might look like. Gap teeth? Balding? Rosacea? Lazy eye? Whatever it was wasn’t the issue. The issue would be how she reacted to seeing him – the _real_ him – for the first time. Sandor’s self esteem was such a delicate thing. She knew that whatever his physical flaws might be wouldn’t change the fact that she loved him. But if he found out that she’d never seen them before, he would call into question their entire relationship. He would doubt her love, or at minimum her attraction. He would lose that confidence he’d slowly developed during the months of their courtship. Would he ever kiss her the same way? Make love to her without holding anything back?

_Will he even want to be with me?_

It seemed her safest course of action would be to _not_ tell him about Melisandre’s spell, at least not immediately. Perhaps in time she’d tell him, but only once he had plenty of evidence of her attraction _after_ seeing the real him.

She debated calling Jeyne to find out what she was going to warn her about (what she now knew to be) Sandor’s appearance. But she’d told Jeyne to bugger off, and she worried that learning about it would just make it worse. If Jeyne said he had bad teeth, Sansa would picture those fake hillbilly teeth commonly seen on Halloween. If she said he had a weird mole on his cheek, she’d end up saying “Moley, moley, moley!” when he walked through the front door. If she said he had scars on his face she’d picture Freddy Krueger and—

Sansa jumped off the bed with a gasp. _Scars._

She flew to the closet and yanked down the box she’d discovered weeks ago. She tore through the contents until she found the photograph of Sandor and his siblings.

All at once she felt like the biggest fool in the universe. How could she have believed that such extensive scarring could have been corrected by surgery? Even the greatest plastic surgeon in the world couldn’t completely erase that much damage to leave behind the perfect untouched canvas that was Sandor’s annoyingly perfect skin.

Sansa squinted at the picture, wishing it had been a closer shot, or taken with something better than what was probably a disposable camera. The scarred side of his face pretty much just looked blurry. It was clear enough to tell it was a mess of scar tissue, but not clear enough to discern any details. Was that eyebrow missing or was it just the sun playing on his face? Was the scarred flesh rutted or smooth?

Even with a better photo she wouldn’t know what to expect _today_. Had he had skin grafts to improve it as much as possible? Had time faded the scarring? Would his facial hair partially obstruct it?

_What if he doesn’t even have facial hair?!_

Sansa laughed at herself, realizing she was more alarmed by the notion of a baby-faced cheek than by a scarred cheek. Perhaps when she eventually told Sandor this crazy tale, she’d include that revelation.

She heard the unmistakable sound of the front doorknob being unlocked. Quickly, she threw the photo back in the box and put the whole thing back on the top shelf of the closet. The next time she was alone she’d organize the contents to cover her tracks, but for now she had to take deep, steadying breaths.

She stood in the bedroom and waited to meet her fiancé in his entirety.


	15. I’ll never get tired of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - cannot believe how many people commented after ch 14. I was a very naughty girl leaving you with that cliffhanger, but hopefully Santa forgives me because I really want a Nespresso Essenza Mini. (Anyone have one? Like/dislike?)
> 
> Anyway... thank you ALL for your comments. Sorry that I tortured you, but hopefully this is worth the brief wait.

“San, you home?” Sandor called out once he stepped into the house. He hung up his jacket while listening for signs of occupancy.

The moment he’d gotten back to the office, Bronn and Jaime found him. Bronn claimed Sansa had run out of the office like the hounds of hell were chasing her. Jaime told Sandor that Sansa had come back from a late lunch seeming very _off._ That she’d rambled on about wanting him to slap her, then something about psoriasis and a witch and some guy in the Peace Corps. She’d even asked him strange questions about Sandor.

Needless to say Sandor turned right around and left to come straight home.

“Sansa?” he called again as he peeked into the kitchen and dining room. They were empty but an uncorked bottle of red wine was conspicuous on the counter.

That ruled out headache or almost any type of illness, which only managed to make fear pool in Sandor’s stomach. He wondered what could have upset her.

_Lunch plans I didn’t know about._

_Guy in the Peace Corps._

_Asking questions about me._

Sandor was sure today was the day he had forgotten to dread. The other shoe was about to drop. Sansa had met someone else – someone whole and handsome, charming and funny, well-bred and highly educated. Oh, and who was a saint who committed his time to the Peace Corps. She’d fallen in love with someone else and felt guilty about it, so she ran from the office, obviously distraught.

“Sansa?” he called again as he began walking down the hall. The light was on in the bedroom, but it could have been left on this morning.

He pushed in the half-opened door and literally jumped at the sight of Sansa just standing there, facing the doorway.

“Fucking hell, Sansa! You scared the shit out of me.”

She only stared back at him, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Why are you just standing here?”

Agonizing seconds passed before she spoke, “I…”

“You what? Bronn and Jaime said you were acting weird. If you’ve got something to tell me, just—ooph!” His back hit the doorframe from the force of Sansa unexpectedly leaping on him. She wrapped her legs and arms around him like a boa constrictor and smacked her lips against his then proceeded to rain violent kisses all over him. His lips, nose, forehead, cheeks, neck…

When she pulled back just enough to look at him, she was red-cheeked and swollen-lipped, “Have I ever told you that you are the most gorgeous human being I’ve ever met?”

He snorted, “Let me guess – that bottle of wine on the counter was your second?”

She shook her head, “I’m not drunk. Well, I’m _love_ drunk.” She resumed kissing and nipping his neck.

“Why do I feel like you’re trying to use sex to distract me?”

She pulled back again, “Distract you from what?”

“From asking who you had lunch with today and why you were talking about some Peace Corps guy to Jaime.”

She threw her head back in laughter, “I had lunch with _Jeyne_. And I haven’t seen the Peace Corps guy since Myrcella’s wedding. And the only reason I spoke to him there is because Margaery practically commanded me to meet him. But he did nothing for me.”

“So why were you talking about him today?”

“I also talked about you. And Sam and Shireen. Did Jaime mention that, too?”

“Aye, but none of it made any sense.”

“Don’t worry about it now. I’ve been thinking about you all day and I missed you and next time you go to a client site I’m coming with you. Do you think I’ll fit in your pocket?” she teased.

“Sansa…”

“Shh… listen to me. I don’t want to wait to get married. I will if you want to, but I love you and I want to marry you and have babies with you. And I want us to get a dog. No – a cat. Or maybe both.”

Sandor pried her off and set her down, “I wasn’t at a client site today.”

“You weren’t?” she peered up at them with those sinfully pretty eyes. The ones that could convince him to do something totally out of character. Like get married, have kids, move to the suburbs. Those eyes could probably get him to rob a bank or even wear a pink shirt.

“No, I took the afternoon to go shopping.”

She put her hands on her hips, “You? _Shopping?_ Now who’s story doesn’t sound credible?”

“Margaery can confirm.”

“Wait – you went shopping with _Margaery_?”

“Yes. Sort of. I…” he dug into his pocket and pulled out the little velvet box, “I told you I was going to get you a ring. This shouldn’t be a bloody surprise.” He thrust it out to her like a teenage cashier hands over change, not the way a man gives a $7,000 ring to the woman he loves.

Her hands covered her mouth and tears were already welling in her eyes even though she hadn’t yet taken the box.

Sandor took a deep breath, “You still sure you want to be with me, Sansa? You won’t get tired of my shite personality or my ugly mug? You won’t want someone else? ‘Cause once this is on your finger, you’re mine.”

She stood on tiptoes to place a feather soft kiss on his lips, “I’ll never get tired of you,” she whispered. She kissed him again on his good cheek, “and I won’t ever want anyone else,” then on his scarred cheek, “and your mug isn’t ugly.”

If such a thing was possible, Sandor Clegane just died a little, but in a good way.

**Sansa**

Sansa barely slept that night. She laid awake staring at Sandor as he snored lightly beside her (when she wasn’t staring at the sparkling diamond on her left hand, that is).

All her fears had been for naught. She could imagine how Sandor’s scars would be intimidating to someone who didn’t take the time to know him, but to her they felt almost instantly familiar. And the side of his face that was unmarred was just as handsome as it’d always been, though there were subtle differences. His eyes were slightly darker but still a beautiful slate grey. His nose was hooked, not straight. His hair was perhaps a bit thinner, but still shoulder length and not balding or receding at all, except on the left side of his face where the scarred tissue extended into his temple and erased his sideburn.

His right brow was as dark and perfectly arched as she remembered, only its counterpart on the other side was partially missing. His lips were shapely, though not over-full.

Most importantly, his beard was thick and well-trimmed, only missing in the place where the scarring seemed to be most severe – at his left jaw and cheekbone. This must have been the epicenter of his injury as the scarring was heavy there but gradually faded out in all directions.

Surprisingly, he didn’t look like a stranger to her. He looked like _her_ Sandor, just with the evidence of his tragic childhood written on his face. If anything, seeing the scars brought her love for him to an even greater level. She wanted to hold him and comfort him and fight off his demons. She wanted to beat the crap out of anyone who dared to look at him like he was a freak, or even those who just gaped at him for too long. She’d have to take ass-kicking lessons from Arya, because she had a feeling she would pick a fight with any random stranger who dared to be rude to her Sandor.

It was two in the morning when Sansa sent Jeyne a text message, not expecting an immediate response: **Sorry. And thanks.** **😊 xoxox**

She sighed as she stared at the ring and all it represented to her. It was a stunning piece of jewelry but even if it was a K-mart special she’d feel this same flutter in her heart. Sandor Clegane hadn’t expected to ever feel love – not just romantic love, but familial love. He had had relationships with women, she knew, but never let himself become completely invested for fear of the inevitable hurt.

But Sansa had given him every kind of love a man could want – a woman’s love, of course. But she also gave him a family – her parents, Arya… and she was sure her brothers would be crazy about him. Rick would be impressed by his size and strength, Bran by his endless knowledge of random facts, and Robb by the way he didn’t hesitate to lay out Joffrey Baratheon.

And someday she was sure she’d give him his _own_ family – children. Whether he wanted one or five didn’t matter to her, but she knew she wanted him to know that unconditional love that exists between a parent and child – that love that his mother briefly gave him, but that was now only a distant blurry memory to him. She wanted Sandor to hold his child for the first time and realize that someone once felt that way about _him_ , too. His mother, and perhaps his father.

It was only after imagining Sandor giving a shoulder-rides to a daughter or playing catch with a son that she realized he had given her love she never expected to have, either. She remembered what she’d been thinking about just before meeting Melisandre. She wondered why she’d never been in love, and if it would ever happen for her. She wondered if she could someday have a husband and kids without losing her independence, and at the time she highly doubted it.

Sandor certainly hadn’t taken her independence though she wouldn’t care if he did. In a matter of six months all her other dreams now faded in comparison to one: having a family with the man she loved. Stay-at-home-mom didn’t sound like a bad thing anymore, as she imagined herself making pancakes for a brood of dark-haired children. Her dad would be proud of that – since miraculously only one of his five kids inherited his look – dark hair and gray eyes. (Catelyn Tully Stark made Sansa rethink all she knew about dominant and recessive genes).

“If you’re going to stay awake staring at it all night, I’m going to take it back,” Sandor mumbled groggily beside her. She hadn’t realized her eyes were still fixed on the ring while her mind was playing home movies of things yet to come. Her, Sandor, and their children making snowmen in Winterfell. Arya would stealthily launch a snowball at Sandor, an epic snowball fight would ensue, then they’d all warm up with cocoa around the fireplace in her parent’s great room. A daughter in footie pajamas would fall asleep on Sandor’s lap while a son or two were entertained by Rickon’s goofiness, or Papa Ned’s stories that would start with, _“when your mom was your age…”_

“Well then you shouldn’t have gotten me such a nice ring,” she finally said.

His response was a hum. Clearly, he was more interested in sleep than conversation.

She didn’t care. They could sleep when they were old and gray and surrounded by grandchildren.

“So did you pick it out or did Marge?”

Sandor sighed, “I had picked out three rings, but wanted a second opinion. Her and I actually agreed on which of the three you’d like best.”

“Aww… it’s so cute, picturing you at the jewelry store.”

“Fucking sales lady looked at me like I didn’t belong there. And I even had a suit on.”

“Did Marge tell her to fuck off?”

Sandor snorted, “With her eyes, yeah.”

“God, I love that bitch.”

“Yeah, she’s kind of the female Bronn. Oh, by the way, Lannister owes me twenty bucks. They have _not_ fucked yet.”

“Wow, really?”

“Yup… she said after Joffrey she’s going to be more discriminating. I asked what she’s doing with Bronn, then.”

Sansa laughed, “He’s a good guy. And if he’s willing to wait for her, then maybe he’s even better than we thought.”

“Don’t call that bugger a good guy. Every morning he makes a point of telling me how blue his balls are, and what he imagines doing to Margaery while he jerks off. I’m going to lose weight ‘cause I haven’t eaten breakfast in two weeks thanks to his visuals.”

Sansa bit her lip, trying not to laugh at what was obviously a disturbing situation for Sandor, “So… given any thought to when we should… you know…”

Sandor shrugged, “I’ll let you decide. Don’t want to piss off your mom.”

“We’ll I’d _like_ to do it tomorrow, but maybe we should get through the holidays… maybe January?”

“When it’s cold as fuck?”

“We live in the south, it’s never that cold here.”

“It is to me.”

“Alright ya big baby; how about late March then?”

A hesitant noise came out of his throat, “I like January better.”

“Make up your mind!”

“Well, it’s less time for you to change your mind.”

Sansa swatted him gently, “Oh hush up, I won’t change my mind. Let’s go with late February, okay?”

His throat rumbled again, “What was your original idea?”

Sansa scrunched her face, “Tomorrow?”

Sandor shrugged beside her, “I’ve got vacation days to use up this year, that’s all I’m saying…”

Sansa nodded, “Yeah, me too. And _I_ hate wasting vacation days. They don’t roll over, you know?”

“No? Then I definitely don’t want to waste them. I should start using mine up right away.”

“Yeah, me too. There’s no shame in it… we work hard, we deserve our time off.”

“Yeah. You definitely work hard. I can’t believe you did all you do without interns up until recently.”

“Me? What about you? You run an entire division.”

“Aye, but a small one.”

“But growing fast!”

“Aye, I suppose…”

Sansa laid with a smile on her face, stroking his arm lightly, “What were we talking about?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh… tomorrow?”

“Oh right. Tomorrow...”

“Yeah... Tomorrow.”


	16. It’s okay to be happy

Sandor stared at the foreign contraption in his hand, and like a wave, the past fourteen months washed over him in a series of memories playing out in his mind’s eye…

He saw Sansa on the train fourteen months ago, admiring her beauty from afar as the emotions of resentment and longing dueled within him.

They slept together for the first time shortly after that – had it even been a whole month? He knew before then that she’d be the death of him but sleeping with her cemented the fact. He fell in love with her that night, with the way she gave herself to him without holding back. When he woke the next morning in her obnoxiously colorful bed, the light pouring in the windows seemed to signal the end of whatever lust spell she’d been under, until he noticed her staring at him with no regret or disgust in her eyes. She had smiled and snuggled into him and told him how much she liked him and that she hoped he liked her. _She hoped he liked her_. That wasn’t the first nor the last time he suspected she had a screw loose, but being as that screw was the one that would have ordinarily had her seeing Sandor Clegane as an ugly, foul-tempered brute, he didn’t mind.

They fell for each other quickly and hard and married two weeks after he bought her the ring. _Tomorrow_ didn’t work – apparently there were steps one had to take before getting married.

It was a simple affair at the courthouse with Arya, Marge, Jeyne, Bronn, and Jaime acting as their witnesses. Sandor would’ve been happy with only the court officials as witnesses, but Sansa wanted her sister and Jeyne there. Inviting Jeyne meant inviting Marge. So Sandor invited Bronn and Jaime if only to have company other than four emotional women.

He and Sansa also used the week to get things in order at work so they could honeymoon in Sunspear. It was Sandor’s first true vacation, and it took some time to get used to men and women waiting on him hand and foot at the resort. He’d barely finish a mojito before another was placed in his hand. His hand that was eternally greasy from slathering his fair-skinned _wife_ with SPF 50 sunscreen. It was sensual the first few times but very quickly became a chore.

Then there was the fallout of their impromptu wedding – though it really wasn’t too bad. Sansa’s mother was disappointed but understanding. Sansa and Sandor spent a weekend at Winterfell and all her siblings were there. Her elder brother Robb looked startled upon meeting Sandor, but he got over it admirably, considering Sandor had married his little sister without ever meeting the man. Robb’s wife Talisa greeted Sandor with open arms – literally. She, like Sandor, had dark hair and skin and they joked about the woes of being on sunscreen duty with their ginger spouses, going so far as to plan that their next vacation would be a couples trip so that Robb and Sansa could do each other’s backs while Sandor and Talisa dozed uninterrupted on the beach.

Sansa’s younger brothers Rick and Bran, who were 19 and 22, couldn’t care less that their sister had married someone who was a stranger to them. Rick only seemed annoyed to no longer be the tallest in their family (he was a whopping half inch taller than Ned). Arya and Gendry had joined them, so Sandor, Gendry, Ned, and Robb spent most of the weekend drinking scotch by the hearth while the women baked cookies and Rick and Bran did whatever guys their age do. It probably involved video games.

That Saturday the whole family took them out to dinner – an unofficial celebration of their nuptials. Catelyn gifted Sansa a necklace that had been in their family for generations. Ned surprised Sandor by gifting him a pair of solid gold cuff links that also were a family heirloom. Sandor wasn’t a crier, but he came pretty damn close when Ned called him son, squeezed his shoulder, and officially welcomed him to the family. Sansa _was_ a crier and didn’t bother hiding how moved she was in that moment.

Before the weekend was over Ned took Sandor aside and asked about his plans for the future. Truly, he and Sansa didn’t make any concrete plans, but they knew they wanted to start a family sooner rather than later (Sansa had thrown out her birth control pills the day they got married). Sandor was inching toward forty and didn’t want to be an “old dad”. Ned had smiled and told Sandor that having kids would mean buying a house in the suburbs, buying an SUV or minivan, yada, yada, yada. Sandor knew all this, of course, but hadn’t given it much thought. He took a deep breath, which Ned laughed at.

Then Ned surprised him yet again by saying he’d like to help Sandor and Sansa buy their first house. Sandor shook his head conclusively, _“I make good money. So does Sansa. We don’t need your help.”_

The words had come out sounding more caustic than Ned deserved, but the man somehow knew Sandor didn’t mean any offense. Sandor may not look it, but he had his pride, and Ned respected that.

Ned laughed again, _“I know you can afford it. But you’re probably picturing some four-bedroom house on the outskirts of the city, right?”_

Sandor shrugged, _“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”_

_“Nothing… but it will be cramped when my wife and I come to visit and one or more of our sons tag along, potentially with their significant others.”_

_“Well, can’t you stay in a hotel?”_

Ned, once again, didn’t take offense to the comment that sounded rude even to Sandor’s ears, _“Catelyn will not want to spend a minute away from her grandbabies when we visit… Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but talk it over with Sansa and see what she wants – if it happens to fall outside your price range, I’ll happily cover the difference.”_

Sandor groaned again but Ned held up a hand, _“Sandor, in case you hadn’t noticed, I have more money than I know what to do with. It will go to my children when I die, or it can go to them before then. Personally, I’d rather still be alive to see them enjoy it.”_

In those terms it made sense, and while Sandor didn’t like the idea of taking any of Ned’s money, he was now sitting on the couch in the giant den of their six-bedroom house with a guest cottage that comfortably slept up to six people depending on the sleeping arrangements. It was further from the city than he’d have liked, but he and Sansa worked from home 2-3 days a week. Sam and Shireen had both been hired full time, and Sandor had a capable Director working beneath him. The company was on a growth trajectory that seemed unstoppable and job security wasn’t an issue for either of them.

Their house hunting had started casually, since they were still just two people and Sandor’s townhouse was more than enough for them – and would be until they had two kids. But when the listing for the property they now owned came up, Sansa fell in love. Apparently, somewhere beneath the tough and independent woman he fell in love with was a woman who dreamed of having lots of kids and hosting big family gatherings at home. She prattled on about things Sandor had never thought to care about – holidays, birthday parties, her parent’s upcoming anniversary… and oddly enough, he started caring about them, too.

So Sandor swallowed his pride and phoned Ned after emailing over the property listing. When Sandor took a deep breath and asked for a _loan_ of $70,000 so they could put more money down and have a smaller monthly payment, Ned laughed and said, _“That’s it?”_ Sandor had grumbled about not wanting to ask for _any_ money, and that’s when Ned put it in perspective in a way that finally got through:

_“Sandor, I inherited a billion-dollar company from my father. And yes, I’ve worked my ass off running it and growing it, but I would not be in the position I’m in today if not for my father’s hard work and generosity. What kind of cunt would I be if I accepted what was given to me by my dad but didn’t extend even a fraction of that generosity to my kids? You think of it as charity; it’s not. Someday, when you buy your first kid a car, or put him or her through college, or help them with rent on their first apartment, you’ll realize you don’t do it as an obligation, you do it because you want to. It’s an investment in them and their future success and happiness. You got it?”_

Sandor _did_ get it, oddly enough. But that wasn’t what he was thinking about. _“Did you just say “cunt”?”_

Ned groaned, _“Yes, but don’t tell your mother-in-law.”_

“Sandor… why aren’t you saying anything?” Sansa asked nervously.

His response was a hum. He’d almost forgotten about the wife sitting next to him and the little contraption still held gingerly in his hand. He had enough presence of mind to know he was very likely in shock, because he knew he should be happy, but all he felt was stunned.

Sansa stood up and started pacing, “Oh god… it’s too soon, isn’t it? I told you it would take time after I stopped taking the pill… you probably were thinking years when I meant months.”

Sansa’s distress pulled him out of his state of shock. He stood up and grabbed her into his arms, “It’s not too soon. I’m just… fuck, Sansa… holy fuck. Thinking about being a dad and finding out it’s actually going to happen… why didn’t anyone tell me how crazy this would feel? Crazy in a good way… all the bloody advice your dad likes to give, most of it not needed, I wish at one point he told me ‘when Sansa tells you she’s pregnant, don’t just sit there like a fucking fool’… but honestly, Sansa… this is… this is amazing.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I swear it. I can’t believe it, but it _is_ amazing. It is… I’m gonna be a dad, Sansa…” he shook his head in wonderment.

“Me, too! I mean, a mom… I mean, I get what you’re saying. I took four tests before I believed it. So I guess I can’t blame you for being in a bit of shock and disbelief. I just want you to be happy about it.”

“I am, Sansa. We’re gonna have a fucking baby!”

“Stop saying the F-word… you have less than seven months to unbreak that habit.”

“Seven months?! I thought it took nine months?”

Sansa laughed, “It does. I’m about nine weeks along.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She rolled her eyes, “It’s not like I could feel it when your sperm fertilized my egg! I got a really light period, or what I _thought_ was my period, then the next month I didn’t get anything. I took the tests at home and went to the doctor yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure.”

Now Sandor was the one pacing, “Seven months… that’s not enough time. Don’t we have to like… babyproof the house or some shit? I mean _stuff_ … and buy a crib and a stroller and diapers and… wait, all the spare bedrooms are still white… shouldn’t we paint one of them pink or blue or… wait, what are we having?”

Sansa laughed, “We won’t know that for a while. Unless we choose not to find out. But if that’s the case it’s okay; the room can be white until after the baby is born. I’m sure you’ll take some time off then, you can paint the nursery while we use one of the other bedrooms temporarily as the nursery.”

“No way, I’m not having my kid breathing in fucking paint fumes! And I think we should find out ahead of time or else I might have a heart attack at the hospital. Or faint. And I’m not a fuck- I’m not a fainter.”

“No, you’re not a fainter,” she offered in an exaggeratedly soothing voice.

“Alright… so shouldn’t we be making a list or something? Of the sh- stuff we need to buy… and the things we need to do? Like should we figure out the fastest route to the hospital? Should we research pediatricians? What about preschools – how old are kids when they start preschool? Oh and you need to pack one of those bags… I’ve seen it in movies… you know, so when you go into labor, we’re ready… holy crap… _labor!_ What if I’m not home when it starts? Maybe we should ask your sister or mom to come stay with us… and don’t we need to make an appointment to go get one of those things… the pictures… what the fuck is it… I mean, what the hell… I mean… What is it called?! Why can’t I think of that word? Not a CAT scan… not an MRI…”

“An ultrasound?”

“Yes!” Sandor snapped, “That thing! Does your girly doctor do it or do we need to find a different doctor?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “My _OBGYN_ does it. And actually…” Sansa reached into her purse and sheepishly pulled out a folded piece of paper, “So I wasn’t sure whether to tell you by showing you the pregnancy test or the ultrasound image. I thought you might freak out a little if you saw the picture first, so I opted to show you the test… but since you’re freaking out anyway…” she unfolded the paper and showed him a black and white image of what looked like a newborn mouse inside a black space that was something between an oval and a kidney bean.

“It looked clearer on the screen. You can come with me to the next appointment at twelve weeks… we’ll go to a specialized imaging center so we can see it in 3D.”

Sandor stared at the photo for way too long. He knew he should be saying something… telling Sansa how happy he was, or how much he loved her, or how cute the little mouse-like blob was, but he suddenly couldn’t speak. His throat felt swollen and his nose was tingling, and he was pretty sure he was blushing.

Sansa reached for his hand, “Hey… you okay?”

He managed a nod even though he was struggling to hold back what felt like a sneeze, but he was pretty certain were tears of joy.

Words completely escaped him, so like a caveman he pointed at her belly with the hand holding the photo. _This is in there?_

She bit her lip to suppress a grin and nodded.

He used the same finger to point at his chest with his eyebrows lifted in the universal facial expression of question-asking. _I put it there?_

She let out a soft laugh through her nose and nodded again.

He closed the gap between them and pulled her in for a hug, his arms wrapping around her head, pressing her face into his chest as his chin rested on her hair. Her little arms wrapped around his waist so tightly he suspected she was using all her strength.

He heard her sniffles and was glad to know that if he cried, he wouldn’t be alone.

He had to loosen his grip when she started speaking so that he could hear her.

“So I was thinking, if it’s a girl, we could name her Eleyna after your mom… or Eleanor after your sister.”

If his throat was swollen before, it was now completely constricted. And it was official – he was crying. Involuntarily.

He managed a nod against the top of her head.

“And Robb and I already agreed that whoever has the first son would name him after Dad… so if Talisa has a girl in two months and we have a boy, are you alright with Eddard?”

He nodded again and wondered if she could feel his tears through her thick hair.

“If we both have boys, then… I dunno, I’ve always liked the name Liam. Or Ben… he’s my uncle that you haven’t met yet… but we don’t have to decide now.”

Sandor nodded again, though he was already set on having a daughter named Eleanor or a son named Eddard. He might have to fight Robb over the name, and it wouldn’t even be close to a fair fight.

Sansa pulled back just enough to look up at him, “You okay?”

He nodded for the hundredth time.

She smiled at him, “It’s okay to be happy. And it’s okay to be so happy you cry.”

He managed to choke out an “I know” – only, when hearing himself say the words he realized for the first time that they were true. It _was_ okay to be happy. It was okay to not hold onto that grudge against his brother that he had carried around like a lead weight. He didn’t have to be the guy that scowled and growled and used sarcasm and self-deprecation to hide insecurity. He didn’t have to be the guy that couldn’t take or give a compliment. He didn’t have to be the loner who didn’t need or rely on anybody.

He _needed_ Sansa, and that was okay. Because he had her, and he was never letting go.

He already needed the Starks because they gave him something even greater than a family you were born into – they gave him a family that _chose_ him and accepted him. That enjoyed his dry humor and reserved demeanor.

He very soon would need this baby if he didn’t already. He knew the moment the little girl or boy was placed in his arms he’d be a goner. If it had Sansa’s big blue eyes he’d _really_ be a goner. If he had a daughter that looked like Sansa, he’d never be able to say no to her. He’d willingly raise a spoiled brat because he would be physically incapable of denying her anything. A kitten? A pony? A Porsche for her seventeenth birthday? Yes, yes, and yes.

If he had a son that looked like him, he’d make sure the boy was smarter than his father – that he learned that being a man doesn’t end at being tough and working hard. It also means being a gentleman… and not being afraid to love a woman with all your heart.

Sansa was still looking at him. He used to hate when her gaze landed on him; now he often forgot he was scarred until he looked in the mirror. Even then, they weren’t as noticeable as they used to be.

He nodded his understanding though he was sure it wasn’t needed. Sansa knew his mind in a way that was both annoying and touching.

“Eleanor or Eddard. Robb can get his own damned name,” he eventually muttered.

Sansa laughed, “Okay. It’s all settled then.”

Sandor nodded, “Right. Good.”

She smiled up at him, “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... I love writing Sandor as a daddy. I picture him as well meaning but clueless, and not dropping his rough-around-the-edges personality even as he's talking about something as precious as a baby. Seriously, having Sandor Clegane say "I’m not having my kid breathing in fucking paint fumes!" is the equivalent of any other man getting on his knees and whispering words of love to his unborn child through its mother's belly.


	17. I guess we were made for each other (epilogue)

It wasn’t that Sansa purposely withheld the truth from Sandor, it simply became inconsequential. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen his scars for the first several months of their relationship, because she loved him with or without the scars.

After marrying, things moved so quickly. Their honeymoon wasn’t the time to tell him – she wouldn’t risk ruining that time together. Then they both were busy catching up with their respective jobs. Then they started looking at houses, thinking they wouldn’t actually buy a house and move until potentially a year or two in the future.

But then they fell in love with the rural estate that was fresh on the market and would undoubtedly be snatched up in no time.

Buying the house, moving into it, and furnishing it took up all their time outside of work.

Then Sansa found out she was pregnant, and all their energy went into preparing for the arrival of their little bundle of joy.

And after the arrival of little Eleanor? Well, any new parent could understand how busy and sleep-deprived they both were.

Sansa’s experience with Melisandre was hardly ever a thought in those months… and then those months turned into years.

Now Eleanor was three and they were on the way home from Winterfell where they had celebrated the holidays.

With innocent curiosity Eleanor – completely out of the blue – asked her daddy what happened to his face. Sansa and Sandor exchanged a glance, both wondering what had prompted the question and – more importantly – how it should be answered.

Sandor cleared his throat, “It was a fire, when I was a kid.”

“Oh… like the fireplace?”

Sandor nodded, “Yeah, kind of like that.”

The opportunity Sansa had forgotten to wait for had presented itself. She partially turned to face Eleanor in the middle row of their SUV, “Did you know that when I first met your daddy, I didn’t see his scars?”

She noticed Sandor turn his head slightly to face her, but she didn’t look back at him.

“Really?” Eleanor asked, a confused look on her little face framed by dark curls.

“Mmhmm… a witch cast a spell on me so I would see daddy the way he is on the inside: kind and beautiful and perfect.”

“Like the frog?”

It took Sansa a moment to realize what Eleanor was referring to, then she giggled, “Yes. Like the Princess and the Frog. But she didn’t make Daddy look like a frog, she only made it so that I could see the Prince for what he was.”

Eleanor found that highly amusing, “Would you kiss Daddy if he looked like a frog?”

Sansa let out a pained sigh, “I dunno… would he be a handsome frog?”

Eleanor giggled, “Yes!”

“Okay, then I guess I would. As long as he was still sweet.”

“Daddy’s always sweet!”

“You’re right about that, baby.”

“What happened to the witch?”

“Well, the witch realized the spell wasn’t needed at all. I would have loved your daddy no matter what he looked like.”

“What did the witch look like?”

“Well she was very beautiful and—”

“A beautiful witch?!”

“Mmhmm… and she had really red hair.”

“Like yours, Mommy?”

“A bit darker than mine.”

“Why did the witch put the spell on you?”

Sansa scrunched her nose, “Because I’d been a very silly girl.”

“Like Auntie Arya?”

“Even sillier.”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide. Arya lived to make her niece and nephew giggle. She was the Stark family court jester and Eleanor clearly couldn’t imagine a sillier person existing.

As her daughter pondered this new knowledge quietly, Sansa turned back to face the windshield, but couldn’t keep the smirk off her face.

“An interesting tale,” Sandor mumbled.

Sansa shrugged, “It’s not a tale, it’s the truth.” Her continued smile seemed to confuse him, but she could tell from a quick glance that part of him was wondering if she wasn’t telling the truth.

She decided to let him wonder. A little mystery was good for a marriage, wasn’t it?

Sandor shook his head, “Crazy woman.”

“Well what does that make the man who married me?”

He chuckled, “A complete madman. Certifiable, in fact.”

She nodded, “Well, then I guess we were made for each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!!! Hope it wasn't a cop out, but ultimately the "truth" wasn't what was important. What was important is that Sansa loves Sandor and I like to think that even without Melisandre's interference, she would eventually have fallen for him. They did work together, after all, and had common friends in Jaime and Bronn. She would have slowly gotten to know him and gotten past his scars. Her treating him the way she did was for SANDOR'S benefit, not hers... it allowed him to come out of his shell and accept a woman's attraction and love. Unlike Shallow Hal, the person who really needed to change wasn't the person who's perception was messed with. Sandor needed to see himself differently, and he was able to do that by seeing himself through Sansa's eyes. 
> 
> So I left it purposely open-ended... you can imagine SanSan getting home that night and him prying her for details and her confessing the full truth, not the version wrapped in a fairy tale. Or you can imagine that fairy tale being the one and only time it was discussed between them. Whatever makes you happy.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING AND COMMENTING!! You guys are awesome!! 
> 
> You can expect to see December updates on my other fics and I *may* post some new WIPs... I have a Shameless/GOT SanSan, a canon-divergent A/B/O SanSan, a modern football-inspired SanSan, a canon Jaimsa, and a canon JaimSanWin (yeah, I went there). That's not even all of them, lol.
> 
> And yes, I know I have a problem. Is there a support group for Fanfic readers/writers?


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